The Game of Princes: The Runaway Wife
by Morninglight
Summary: Rewrite of an AU derived from the Dutyverse where Alistair and my autistic!f!Cousland Mara never become Wardens. A royal bastard, a thief, a despised son and an elder statesman find themselves in the heart of a storm triggered by one girl's actions even as an archdemon awakens to threaten Ferelden. Part one of a larger series.
1. Prologue

Note: This is a rewrite of a two-part series called _The Guard and the Girl_ and _The Game of Princes._ I intend to make the storyline a lot more coherent and streamlined instead of just chucking every idea I had into the one pot and hoping for a good story. _The Black Griffin _is still canon and might well be folded into this story as an interlude. I hope you like it! Each chapter will come with a quote from Niccolo Machiavelli, the inspiration for Rennio d'Antiva. Thanks for reading.

…

**Prologue**

"_We cannot attribute to fortune or virtue that which is achieved without either."_

Niccolo Machiavelli

Antiva City, Solace, 9:28

His eyes opened as he screamed.

Rennio d'Antiva sat upright in his bed, sweat slicking his bare skin as the roar of a tainted god echoed in his imagination. Never since his earliest years as a Grey Warden had the Black Griffin felt the acidic surge of the taint within his veins as he did upon hearing the call of the archdemon: _Come. Join us. Be one with me. Take what you deserve…_ The dark side, the part which gloried in havoc and war and mayhem, eagerly listened to that call as the rest of him, the elder statesman with too many years and friends gone, screamed in silent horror. He also knew that Wardens across Thedas would have known the instant the archdemon awoke… and that a Blight had come.

_Respiro de Fabbricante,_ he thought despairingly as he rose from his thick pallet of silken sheets, eyes wide with terror, _I cannot… Please… let this not be. I have too much to do to slay an archdemon._

But it was true and all the entreaties to the absent Maker could change that fact. His great work was threatened by a darkness with which no compromise could be met; and even as the world burned, his many enemies would try to bring him down. Everything Rennio held dear in this world was in danger… and he could not even warn all of the people he loved. Some were too distant or too oblivious; others were too young or too old to be of use.

The Grandmaster Emeritus of the Crows sought refuge in the morning routine of his small urban villa, drawing himself a bath from the flame-runed dwarven enchantments he'd paid to have installed many years ago. He washed himself with an ivory soap from Rivain, famed for having almost no scent, and then scraped his cheeks and chin smooth with a razor sharp enough to make the wind bleed. A balm made from chamomile and sheep's fat soothed the raw burn of the razor's passing and softened the lines of age about his hematite-grey eyes and generous mouth. Close-cropped hair of an indeterminate grey-black required little more than a quick comb and he'd laid out his customary black silk doublet and breeches last night – and good thing too, for the colour suited his sombre mood. _Comportamento_ decreed that he must appear unaffected by the horrors of the night… for it would be months before they even knew where the archdemon would likely rise.

He sat down for breakfast though he had little appetite, for it behoved the master of the house to present a calm façade to the staff so they did not worry. Thankfully he was partial to a light meal of cheese, fruit and well-watered wine in the mornings or his cook would have killed him for ignoring her efforts. As always he read through the reports delivered by his senior Crow Journeyman, a laconic and unambitious man named Roberto, and allowed his mind to connect the patterns concealed within seemingly unrelated bits of information from one end of Thedas to the next. For a moment he imagined a light, girlish voice, raw with the coarse accents of Ferelden, offering her childish opinion with brutal honesty… Then he banished the phantom of his foster daughter. Bryce Cousland had made it abundantly clear what he thought of the skills Rennio was teaching his only daughter when he took the girl from Antiva and sent her to the Maker-forsaken arsehole of Ferelden known as Lothering.

But that half-formed recollection of so many mornings spent at this table in the bright sunny patio must have been a warning from the Maker… For one of the reports, sent by Master Ignacio of Denerim, detailed the confirmed betrothal of Mara Cousland to Thomas Howe, youngest son of the Arl of Amaranthine. Parchment crumpled as Rennio's right hand closed into a fist, the black rage of betrayal mingling with the incessant call of the archdemon to destruction. Not. One. Word. As the man who had taken a strange, cold-eyed child at the request of a family who weren't sure what to do with her, the man who had begun to share the lessons of bitter life experience with a wide-eyed intelligent girl who understood the Game of Princes like few others, and the man who had entrusted the daughter of his soul to parents who didn't understand her, the Black Griffin surely deserved some sort of input into her future!

"Roberto!" he yelled; his Journeyman appeared as if conjured from the Fade. "I want dossiers on the entire Howe family of Amaranthine in Ferelden. I want to know everything about them down to the colour of their piss in the mornings."

"Of course," Roberto agreed. "I have preliminary reports on them already prepared for your reading."

Rennio allowed himself a sharp smile. Roberto was unambitious but not stupid; he was content to inherit Rennio's role (well, the one with the Crows) in due time. "You do well. Give them to me and take the rest of the day off once you have sent out the orders to my agents. I will not be… fit to deal with."

"Shall I dispatch an order to Master Ignacio to prepare his cell should Thomas prove unsuitable?" Roberto asked quietly.

The Black Griffin was sorely tempted but in the end shook his head. "No… but write it up and have it ready to go at a moment's notice. I cannot act pre-emptively. Not now."

There were questions in Roberto's eyes as the Grandmaster rose to his feet in one surge of controlled fury and stalked towards his salle. Rennio chose not to enlighten him. The world would know of a Blight soon enough.

…

Kirkwall, Matrinalis, 9:28

Nathanial Howe allowed himself a cool smile as the arrow landed neatly in the throat of his target, a merchant foolish enough to defraud the Coterie. There was no better manifestation of the Maker's glory than to see muscle, eye and bow combine to create the deceptively simple beauty of a perfect shot. He leapt off the rooftop of the Amell estate, now owned by slavers since that idiot Gamlen had lost one too many bets, and landed like a cat in the alleyway behind it. Then he took a brisk but casual walk, like he had a mission to accomplish but was not acting suspiciously, to the markets and tried not to smile at the confusion created by a raven-fletched arrow. The Coterie would clash with the Antivan Crows and one foolish merchant who'd revealed one too many secrets of the Howes would be forgotten before sunset tomorrow.

When most of the nobility talked of politics, they spoke of it as 'The Game of Princes', drawn from Rennio d'Antiva's seminal treatise. But where high-browed lordlings dreamt of battles fought with word and manner, more pragmatic rulers like Arl Rendon Howe dealt with the seedy underbelly of the pretty diplomatic manoeuvres that some called 'the murder game'. Nate, with his cold smile and archer's talents, was both a skilled agent and dangerous threat to his father… and so he was squired here in the Free Marches, one more dog-lord to be hired and fired as the Marcher Lords willed.

After today's performance, Nate felt he deserved a drink and a tumble, and so he headed towards the Blooming Rose. Just before he reached the door, a hand grabbed his shoulder and hissed, "Lord Nate!"

Varel, seneschal of Vigil's Keep, found himself pinned to a whitened wall with a muscular forearm pressed across his throat. Nathanial eyed the older man's bulging eyes and working mouth for a moment before he eased the pressure a bit to allow free breath and speech. "Are you fucking stupid or are you trying to get yourself killed?" the eldest Howe son demanded.

"My lord, I didn't mean anything by it," Varel said pleadingly. "I was sent by your father with a message."

"What does he want?" Nate growled. Not another petty errand in some Maker-forsaken corner of the Free Marches, surely…

"He wants you to come home. There's to be a wedding – your brother Thomas to Mara Cousland," Varel replied quickly.

Nate stepped back and dropped his forearm from Varel's throat in surprise; the seneschal rubbed the bruised flesh with a wince. "The Couslands actually agreed after years of negotiations! Maker's hairy balls, what did they demand as bride price?"

Varel's expression darkened at Nate's casual blasphemy; he was a devout man, perhaps as a means of coping with the wolf-eat-wolf politics of Amaranthine. "They demanded and received Whitebridge, my lord."

"Sonuva…" Nate muttered. Whitebridge was one of the most prosperous bannorn in Amaranthine, located on the border between the Arling and the neighbouring teynir of Highever; its Tevinter-built bridge was able to allow trade in during the depths of the winter storms which lashed the northern coast of Ferelden.

"It will be the personal bannorn of Mara Cousland as Thomas already holds the neighbouring one of Forktrees," Varel continued softly.

"Maker's flaccid cock…" Even the Cousland bride would hold more political power than Nate; because he hadn't been home since the age of fourteen, none of the freeholders knew him well enough to declare him bann of even the smallest, most impoverished bannorn on the edges of the Dragonbone Wastes.

Varel looked ready to die of heart failure and Nate took pity on the man. "Well, it's too late to see about getting a ship. I'll buy you a drink and woman at the Blooming Rose and you can tell me how the rest of the family's going…"

Even if he was only being brought home for the sake of propriety, it would be good to see Delilah and the old familiar sights of Vigil's Keep once again. And who knew – maybe this Cousland girl might prove to be an excellent ally…

…

Denerim, Frumentum, 9:28

"No."

Alistair's voice cracked on that single syllable as he stared down at the Grand Cleric, swallowing thickly. It was the first decision he'd ever made for himself… and it was one which would have dire consequences. But he couldn't take templar vows in good faith, not when he didn't want to be here.

He didn't want to be a threat to Cailan. All he wanted to do was live a nice quiet life, maybe with a nice quiet girl, and stay the hell away from politics. He hadn't asked to be born… Why couldn't Arl Eamon and Queen Anora understand that?

Grand Cleric Elemena actually stopped in mid-sentence, her jaw dropping in shock as the royal bastard displayed a hint of backbone. "You… refuse?" she asked, voice deprived of its oratorical richness, ice-blue eyes wide with confusion. "Alistair, you know there's no other choice for you."

The tall youth, still rangy from adolescence, continued to stare down at the priestess. "If I can't leave the Chantry on my own two feet, then I'll leave in a coffin," he declared, voice much firmer this time. "That's one choice I can always make, Your Reverence."

Now Elemena looked troubled. Suicide was a sin in the eyes of the Maker with few exceptions, automatically damning the person who committed it to the Void. Though Alistair was a discipline problem with his constant scraps and temper tantrums, she also knew that when he got that mulish set to his strong jaw, the boy couldn't be budged. "You would damn yourself to the Void rather than be a templar in service to the Maker?" she asked.

"Given the choice between lyrium addiction and the Void, I'll take the Void," the initiate retorted bitterly. "I don't want to be a threat to Cailan, Your Reverence. I just want to have a quiet life. I'll break my nose and go into exile or something, but please… _let me go_!"

In the end, his plea worked, for it was the Grand Cleric's duty to place the souls of her flock above the worldly concerns of princes. She allowed him to take a thin cloak and light backpack of bread and cheese in addition to the shirt, breeches and boots he wore; all pauper's garments but better than nothing.

For the first time in ten years, Alistair stood outside the Chantry and breathed air sharp with the mingled scents of smoke and turning leaves. He was free. Even if an Anora-sent assassin dispatched him to the Maker's side at this very moment, the looming spectre of lyrium addiction and fake piety no longer tainted his future. He was free.

Over the next two days he discovered freedom was much more complicated than he thought; a thief, dark-eyed and smirking, stole his cloak and backpack as he slept in an alleyway. He became acquainted with hunger but because he looked strong and fit, no one wanted to give him alms. He was fairly certain Anora was already hiring Crows to kill him.

In the end it was a simple act of altruism which solved his problems: a brawl spilled out of the Wicked Wench, a pub which catered to the rougher elements of the Denerim marketplace, and engulfed half of Twobit Lane. A bald, face-branded dwarf wearing the tabard of a Denerim City Watchman and the red trim of a Corporal found himself surrounded by five burly thugs wielding wicked Tevinter saw swords as the rest of his four-man patrol bolted down the street. Unthinkingly despite his empty aching stomach, Alistair waded into the fight and unleashed a holy smite which stunned enough of the thugs for the Corporal to fall back-to-back with him, tossing the young man a cudgel as he drew a pair of nasty-looking hand-axes.

The thugs didn't have a hope in the Black City: Alistair and the Corporal left two dead and the rest broken and bleeding on the street as a crowd gathered around curiously. Apparently a common citizen helping the Watch was a rare occurrence, according to the gossip of the local prostitutes, several of whom issued catcalls to Alistair which made him nearly die of blushing embarrassment.

When the patrol bravely returned, accompanied by a foul-mouthed, hatchet-faced, elf-blooded woman with the same tabard as the dwarf, Alistair found himself under the intense scrutiny of two Corporals of the Watch. "What's your name and what do you do for a living?" the dwarf demanded.

"My name's Alistair of Redcliffe and until recently I was an initiate at the Chantry," Alistair replied honestly. He couldn't exactly not hide his templar training.

"Why'd you leave?" the elf-blooded Corporal asked curtly.

"I didn't want to be a full templar, ma'am." Alistair couldn't believe his voice sounded so childish and whiny.

"Few in their right minds would," the dwarf observed with a grin. "Come with us, boy. We'll check out your story and _if_ it rings true and _if _you impress Sergeant Kylon, you're going to have a job."

Revered Mother Boann was only too happy to confirm that Alistair had left the Chantry in relatively good favour – no one liked to see an initiate leave, but it was considered better they go willingly instead of breaking vows. Even templars – Alistair, after all, had been a lousy one. At least he wasn't a Grey Warden or something.

Soon Alistair found himself under the hawkish gaze of a plain-faced man with brown hair and eyes, exhausted by the burdens of an inadequate force and a rising number of criminals. Despite Corporals Olin (the dwarf) and Yarin's (the elf-blooded woman) dire warnings, Kylon simply took one look at him, got his name and previous occupation, and then waved him into the line of recruits. The royal bastard eyed his fellow would-be Watchmen and tried not to wince – they were a combination of useless noble bastards and too-smart street scum.

_It is truly a sad statement on the Denerim City Watch's condition that a failed templar is the pick of the bunch in the recruits_, Alistair thought wryly as he was issued a set of iron chainmail, an elm kite shield and an iron longsword. The recruits were allowed to eat freely of the same coarse oat bread and pease porridge given to prisoners, so Alistair had already packed his stomach full of food and then was permitted to sleep on a spare cot in the infirmary until he could find a room.

He fell asleep in short order, certain that his life was only going to get better. Maybe if he stayed with the Watch Anora wouldn't think of him as a threat… He drifted into dreams of a pretty girl and lots of children, just glad to be free.

…

Daveth wrapped his new cloak about himself – yeah, it was thin slubby undyed wool but it was better than nothing in the lengthening autumn chill – and ate some of the cheap oat bread from the backpack. Maker bless the Chantry boy for providing for his needs; the pickpocket would drink to him once he had some bits for ale.

He'd managed to annoy the League of Honest Businessmen with an unauthorised theft and was pointedly told to leave Denerim for new horizons until the chief forgot about him. The nearest northern port was Amaranthine and the pickpocket had secured a job as cook's boy on a dingy little sloop heading that way. Thankfully the captain was the sort who forbade the sailors using the help as entertainment… Stabbing somebody in the gut always produced awkwardness that Daveth really preferred to avoid.

He caught sight of the grandiosely named _Amaranthine Gem_ and boarded the little boat, grinning hugely at the thought of going somewhere other than Denerim. He'd never looked back since he ran away from the nameless hamlet on the edge of the Korcari Wilds he came from; he wouldn't do the same with Denerim.

And who knew – maybe there was room for an up-and-coming pickpocket in the ranks of the thieves in Arl Howe's city… Yep, things were looking mighty fine for Daveth the Deft indeed.


	2. Chapter 1

Note: Thanks for the reviews. Triggering content: implication of sexual abuse; homophobic language. Playing around with canon by making Thomas older than my f!Cousland… It was also sometimes customary in medieval times for marriages to be consummated in front of witnesses (well, behind a curtain); there's a scene in _The Tudors_ which shows this (it's kinda squicky because it involves an old guy)… The meaning of Mara's tattoo changes from story to story: in the Dutyverse, it's something she got when she was drunk; in the Gamesverse, its meaning and source are quite a bit different.

…

**Chapter 1**

"_Men are driven by two principal impulses, either by love or by fear."_

Niccolo Machiavelli

Whitebridge, Satinala 9:28

The bannorn of Whitebridge was a mid-sized trading town located on the main coastal road between Highever and Amaranthine, guarding passage to an arching bridge of Tevinter-carved white stone that was enchanted somehow to always be free of snow or rain. The townsfolk and freeholders were known for their fierce Highever independence and Amaranthine pragmatism… and switching between the teynir and the arling as suited their needs. Now they had offered their allegiance to a Cousland bride of a Howe… Only time would tell how the union would go.

Mara Cousland was to be wed on her sixteenth birthday; the negotiations for her marriage to Thomas Howe had begun when she was twelve and newly returned from Antiva. She suspected that was the real reason for her removal from Rennio's household, not the Antivan politician teaching her the tricks of his trades. Rennio would never have approved a union with a Howe; nothing less than a prince for the daughter of his heart.

She looked into the polished steel hand-mirror given to her by Bann Ceorlic for her thirteenth birthday and sighed. Rumour had it Thomas was displeased with the crease between her eyebrows from hours of reading, the lightly tanned complexion from practicing with weapons outdoors, and the swirling woad-blue tattoo which covered the right side of her face. Mara had never quite fit into the accepted mould of a noblewoman in either Ferelden or Antiva; it had frustrated her parents despite their love for her and even Rennio, who otherwise accepted her without question, had often advised her to pay more attention to social graces.

But she at least looked the part with her long fair hair piled into some ornate crown of braids, freshwater pearls from Amaranthine twined through it and dangling from her eyes and wrapped thrice around her neck, soot darkening her eyelashes and a touch of rouge adding colour to both her lips and cheeks, and a modest, high-necked gown of Highever Blue silk belted with more Amaranthine pearls. She hated the outfit, especially with its stomacher (meant to enhance her maidenly slimness) that made it hard to breathe. But she had to live up to the Cousland family name and do her part in keeping Ferelden stable – now more than ever.

Her mother and Oriana fussed over her like Chantry sisters with a statue of Andraste, tweaking the folds of her dress and adjusting pearls as necessary. Mara vowed that once this wedding was over, she was going to never wear such a confining dress again. She _much_ preferred the wider, calf-length skirts and square bodices of the Antivan style… Especially since most of the dresses she had made for herself had a concealed slit through which she could grab a dagger. Of course, she wasn't allowed to wear a dagger in case Thomas got the wrong idea…

Finally, far too soon, the horn summoning the bride and groom to the Chantry blew. Mara rose to her feet, Eleanor and Oriana keeping a tight grip on her arms (just in case she tried to run, which wasn't entirely an unreasonable concern on their part) as she was escorted from the inn room…

This town was to be her bannorn and Mara vowed she'd do the right thing by them if it killed her. "A prince is only as strong as his people's support for him," Rennio had told her once. "Strength of arms is all very well, but if you are terrible to your subjects, they may decide to rebel and damn the costs. Look at what happened in your own country with the Orlesians."

Her mother and sister-in-law released her arms once they were in public, trusting in honour to keep Mara pinned. It appeared her penchant for asking awkward questions and disdaining social conventions had netted her a reputation of being unwilling to live up to the duties of her station. Which was complete bullshit – Mara failed to see how dressing up in silk and swanning around at parties enhanced a noble's duties. She could use a bow with adequate proficiency, was rather good with daggers and poisons, and had an encyclopaedic knowledge of Thedas, its cultures, politics and history – these were more use to her as a ruler than a fancy dress.

(This wasn't to say she didn't appreciate fashion. She liked decoration on her daggers and armour, after all. She just didn't see the point to anything other than well-made and comfortable in her garments).

At least the Maker had been kind to her in one regard: Thomas Howe was only about five years older than her and reasonably presentable. Oh, he could plough a field with his hooked nose and his skin was rather pale, but he was tall and sinewy with piercing blue-grey eyes. He was practically the twin of his elder brother Nathanial, both of them wearing fine black samite doublets and breeches tucked into knee-high boots, while the sallow, beady-eyed Rendon wore some Maker-awful concoction of yellow, white and brown velvet. Mara preferred classical and conservative over trying to scream 'I'm rich, powerful and virile!' any day of the week.

She assumed her place as the wedding march played, feeling the eyes of over a thousand guests and townsfolk upon her as she walked down the aisle. King Cailan, resplendent in cream, saffron and ochre silk, cracked some kind of joke to his wife Queen Anora, who looked unamused in her customary lilac and baby-blue damask; Loghain Mac Tir and Mara's own brother Fergus Cousland glared stonily at each other across the aisle, the former in his armour and the latter in Highever Blue velvet; her father Bryce waiting expectantly to escort her to the altar; the Guerrin family clustered around the grey-haired, perpetually worried Arl Eamon and the harpy Isolde; and even Duncan of the Grey Wardens, dark and grim-faced at the back of the crowd. Everyone who was someone had shown up for today.

She took a deep breath as the Grand Cleric stepped up once her father had escorted her to the altar, looking directly at Thomas for the first time in over eight years. His eyes narrowed and lips thinned but he said nothing as Elemena began the appropriate Canticles for the beginning of a wedding.

_Oh Maker, this is going to be fun…_ Mara thought wryly as she prepared to commit her life to a man she knew nothing of for the good of Ferelden…

…

_Nate nearly dropped the tankard of ale he was holding as Rendon Howe outlined the exact reason the eldest son had been brought home. It wasn't for the sake of propriety - there was nothing appropriate about it! – but instead to fulfil a duty Thomas apparently had difficulty in…_

_ Nate's own sources had kept him up to date on Thomas' bedroom activities and the archer felt more than a little pity for the Cousland girl at what she faced. Maker willing she be the sort to find… exotic… bedsport arousing. Or Thomas was going to find himself face-down in an alleyway with a Crow dagger in his back._

_ Which mightn't be a bad thing given that Rendon had made it abundantly clear he wanted Thomas to inherit the arling. Nate shuddered at the thought; the last trip he'd taken through Forktrees, on his way to Whitebridge, the bannorn was small and verging on impoverished because his little brother took more than his fair share of harvest tithe… and the freeholders were too terrified of the Howe name to complain. Maker willing, the Cousland girl could keep Thom's spendthrift nature and cruelty at manageable levels or there'd be trouble. He'd heard good things about the Couslands, even if they were his family's rivals: never had the teyrn faced a rebellion within his ranks nor had the people of Highever starved… Maybe this wedding would be a good thing for Amaranthine._

_ But Nate was now expected to do Thom's husbandly duty because the idiot was, in addition to being a cruel, somewhat indifferent bann, sterile. He'd have to bed the girl until she was pregnant… without letting her know who he truly was._

_ Maker's flaccid cock, what a mess. But he couldn't say no… His duty as a Howe of Amaranthine compelled him._

Nate finished his third tankard of ale as Thom slunk out of the bedroom, expression sour. He'd been looking forward to his wedding night, it seemed. "Uppity Cousland bitch," he muttered. "Telling _me_ she'd prefer I refrained from prostitutes until she was pregnant… and then only go to brothels _she_ knew were clean…"

_Thom really is too stupid to live,_ Nate thought wryly as he stood up. He and Thom were almost identical and since the wedding night was traditionally conducted in darkness for the modesty of the couple in the face of witnesses to confirm the marriage had been consummated, Mara wouldn't know the difference for a long time.

Nate had to admit the Cousland girl was a pretty one with the intriguing potential to become a predator in her own right. Her birth father Bryce was too honourable to play either the Game of Princes or the murder game; her foster father Rennio d'Antiva was the first to codify and define the rules of the Game of Princes… to actually give it a name. Mara Cousland, according to the dossier Nate had assembled from his sources, was outspoken, unconventional, brutally honest, somewhat distant emotionally and blindingly intelligent with an innate understanding of the bigger picture. Sure, she wasn't the best socially (the time she vomited on Bann Teagan's boots at the age of twelve being a good example) but she would (in theory) make a good player of the games. Sometimes it was wit that won, not flash and glitter…

The eldest Howe allowed himself a smile as he entered the dim bedroom, conscious of the gathered non-related nobles –Bann Teagan Guerrin, Arl Urien Kendalls, and Arl Wulff – at the other end of the large room. It was necessary for a noble marriage to be consummated under the eye of neutral lords so that neither bride nor groom's family could claim the other cheated somehow. Nate personally thought the old coots got off on watching younger people have sex (or well, as close as they could behind closed curtains…) "Just needed another drink," he said with a wry laugh, grateful his voice sounded so much like Thom's… Maker's hairy balls, this was going to be awkward.

Once he stepped inside the thick wool tapestries which shielded the four-posted bed from view, he closed them with a sigh of relief and turned to face the girl he was to deflower. Mara Cousland wore a lace-trimmed nightgown of thick samite and was shivering slightly; it being Satinalia and on the edge of freezing, he wasn't surprised. But the nightgown revealed a girlishly slender form with small breasts and slim hips; it would be no hardship to do his part.

"I apologise for being blunt before," she said unsurely, overlarge blue eyes cast downwards. "I am… not used to this."

Nate realised she was referring to her ultimatum to Thom concerning prostitutes – it seemed the little lady already knew of his brother's penchant for wenching. Or she was just practical. He simply shrugged and said, "It's alright. Neither am I."

He sat down beside her and tried to decide his next course of action: be kind and understanding or be rough like Thom would. But his struggle was temporary: Nate was a professional killer but he wasn't one to be cruel to women. So instead he reached for her gently and gave her a lingering kiss…

When it was over, Mara sleeping by his side, he realised that this brave, big-eyed girl was completely wasted upon his brother. She'd been unexpectedly sweet and cooperative, a quick study in the art of lovemaking… Just the kind of girl he sometimes imagined marrying. Not that he'd ever be allowed near the grasping of power that being wedded to Bryce Cousland's daughter represented by his father.

Suddenly bitter, he arose from the bed and walked out of the bedroom, wrapping a robe around him and confirming the deed was done with a jerky nod. Of the gathered nobles, only Bann Teagan narrowed his eyes thoughtfully; Nate had always wondered what the little brother of Arl Eamon did as a courtier beyond trying to manage Cailan's stupidity… He'd need to investigate.

Maker help them all. This was going to be complicated.

…

Amaranthine, First Day, 9:29

The past few months had been profitable for Daveth the Deft; the crowds of Amaranthine were slightly less suspicious than those of Denerim and the thieves of the port city were impressed by the polish Daveth had brought with him. He'd finally decided to be honest on why he'd been told to leave Ferelden's capital city to the leader of the Charitable Guild, Amaranthine's organised crime syndicate… It had been appreciated and Alder, the rat-faced Free Marcher who currently ran the show here, had decided to give him a few difficult tasks now and then for a higher cut of the proceeds… So far, it hadn't been a problem.

But now he'd been ordered to boost something from the Arl of Amaranthine's own mansion… and Daveth was a shit burglar. Always had been. He'd need to somehow outsource this job or find a way to sneak inside and grab the papers he'd been ordered to fetch…

He was sitting dejectedly on the stairs of the Chantry when somebody nearly tripped over him and came close to falling arse over head down the steep flight. Daveth managed to grab the girl before she cracked her head and found himself looking down at a pretty little piece with huge blue eyes that were rimmed red from obvious weeping. "Easy, sweetheart, I gotcha," he assured her.

"I… Thank you," she said, voice raw with sadness and tinged with a faint Antivan drawl overlaid by the lilt of Lothering. This was a girl who'd been places… He especially approved of the woad tattoo that swirled around her right eye and had a bit of matching tracery on the left cheek; she'd done a Chasind shaman a favour of some kind and they'd marked her as a friend to the tribe. It wasn't an uncommon sight in Lothering and the villages on the edge of the Wilds, though he'd never seen it on a northern lass before. Only folks from the Waking Sea had that subtly oval shape to their eyes, legacy of their ruling Bann's bloodline… Yup, this girl had been places.

"So's… I'm Daveth," the pickpocket introduced himself as, reluctantly letting the pretty little thing go. He realised that she wore the simple yellow chemise, brown bodice and calf-length skirt of a Howe servant beneath a rough grey cloak… Maybe the Maker had heard his prayers!

"I am M-Morna," she replied softly. Up close, Daveth realised that she wore a bandage on one arm and a faded bruise mottled her left cheek.

_Must be one of Lord Thom's playthings,_ he thought sourly; Thom Howe's penchant for beating and cutting his women was well known in the city. Rumour had it he was getting even more vicious because he didn't _dare_ lay a cruel hand on his Cousland bride Mara…

She swayed a little and he grabbed her shoulder, making the poor thing flinch. "Must be rough workin' for the Howes," he said quietly as he steered her down the stairs and away from the Chantry to a private corner.

Morna simply shrugged. "It is life. And I have nowhere else to go."

She couldn't have given Daveth a better opening if he'd tried to get one. "What if there was a way you could get them back… and earn yourself a bit of gold doin' so? Enough to get outta here."

Her blue eyes narrowed and he smiled. "Relax, sweetheart. I'm not askin' ya to whore or nothin'. I been asked by an important personage ta get certain… papers… but I can't get ta the study. But ya can."

"Who and why?" she demanded warily.

Daveth had been prepared for this possibility for a long time; he reached into his pocket and pulled out a bronze ring cast with the head of a snarling mabari. Anyone who got around knew what that ring symbolised.

"It should be gold or silver," she said, revealing she knew a fair bit about the Hounds of the King, the spies and assassins of the Fereldan Crown.

He chuckled. "Love, do I look like I could wear gold or silver?"

She eyed his coarse studded leather jerkin, thick patched wool shirt and heavy breeches sceptically, then shook her head. "I… suppose not."

"Welp, I ain't one them bastards ta order ya ta do somethin' an' not reward ya for your service ta the Crown. Get me these papers an' I'll get ya outta here. Sound good?"

She was wavering, so he palmed a handful of silver and offered her five pieces – it was enough to get her from Amaranthine to Denerim. "I'll offer this as down payment. Ya do this for me, I'll give you a whole sovereign."

Something desperate flashed in her eyes before she nodded. "Done," she said, slipping the coin into a hidden pocket with the grace of a rogue. Maybe this little Morna had a more colourful past than he thought… "Meet me in the Crown and Lion. I will have them by tonight."

Daveth nodded and grinned, pecking her on the cheek. "Thanks, love. I promise, ya won't regret this."

"I hope not," she murmured as she slipped away. Daveth sauntered over to the Crown and Lion feeling quite pleased with himself. Yep, these Amaranthine folks had nothing on a lad from Denerim!

…

Denerim, Verimensis 9:29

It was good to be a Private of the City Watch.

Alistair looked at himself in the sheet of polished bronze the Privates used to make sure they passed dress regulations and smiled broadly. He'd earned his tabard and grey iron chainmail in record time, mostly because he didn't wench, rarely drank excessively (and even Sergeant Kylon conceded the time he'd woken up on the tavern floor chewing an old sock was the fault of Olin's black dwarven beer), and actually obeyed the guidelines involving honour, honesty and integrity that the Sergeant had set. The bastards and scum were grumbling about arse-kissing and favouritism (when they weren't implying that Alistair had screwed his way to the promotion based on Sergeant Kylon's known preference for men); it never occurred to them that being a decent human being actually worked sometimes.

He'd even gotten a grey iron shield emblazoned with the Denerim colours and a good steel sword of dwarven make, better than anything he'd ever used before – even in the Chantry. The weapon had been a gift from Olin for saving his arse in that brawl; Corporal Yarin, who'd taken Alistair under her wing when he'd confessed his mother was elf-blooded, had given him a new set of clothing made by her relatives in the Alienage as a promotion present.

After years of living neglected in stables and under the dour rule of the templars, Alistair was positively thriving under the kindness and fellowship of Kylon and his Corporals. He was only too happy to take the worst jobs to show his appreciation – and did so. Errands, cleaning the latrines, patrolling the Alienage and docks… He did it all. And the slackers, the ones who were there for a job that paid decently and didn't entail work – or the scum who were in it for the power – didn't understand why he'd risen to the top.

His physical appearance had changed too: since the scum that filled the streets of Denerim liked to go for the face in a fight, he'd picked up a broken nose and an inch-long scar down his right cheek. A goatee and moustache that were more stubble than actually hair (much like Bann Teagan Guerrin's) obscured his mouth and chin; he only shaved every other day on his cheeks. And he'd begun to keep his hair short and bristly for convenience…

The prostitutes of Denerim, who'd apparently placed a bounty of five gold sovereigns on his virginity since it had gotten out that the heroic Recruit was a Chantry boy, approved – and let him know every chance they got. Despite three months or so in the Watch, he _still_ blushed at their ribald offers – a fact which amused his colleagues and superiors to no end.

"Hey… I see the Chantry boy's preening in the mirror," smirked one of the bastards, a rather unpleasant chap named Hank Ceorlic. "You getting ready for your bend-over session with the Sergeant?"

Alistair allowed himself a grin as he turned around to face the pudgy Recruit. "Hank, your obsession with the Sergeant's preferences leads me to think you might secretly long for his company."

It took a few seconds for the implications of Alistair's statement to sink in before Hank's face went beet-red and he snarled in fury. "I'm no poofter!"

Alistair shrugged casually. "My mistake. I thought you were jealous for a moment… Not that I _am_ keeping company with the Sergeant, mind you. He prefers older companions."

"You being called the Sergeant's bum-chum again?" Corporal Olin asked as he wandered into the armoury and changing room.

"I'm beginning to think Hank's longing for the company of Sergeant Kylon," Alistair drawled as Hank's face went from beet-red to plum-purple.

Olin looked the Recruit over and snickered. "Pity for him Kylon's got better taste."

_"I am not a fucking poofter!"_ Hank snarled, launching himself at the ex-templar.

Templars were trained in close-quarters grappling and wrestling in order to subdue mages; Alistair helped Hank's lunge along and smashed the noble bastard's head into the polished metal mirror, leaving a noticeable dent and knocking the idiot out cold. It felt good to get a bit of his own back, Alistair thought with a grin as Kylon and Yarin came storming in.

"Private – my office, now," Kylon ordered, eyes hard. "Somebody take that dumbfuck Hank to the infirmary. I don't need his noble father on my arse again."

Alistair followed Olin, Yarin and Kylon like a puppy, knowing that he was likely in deep trouble. He hadn't breathed a word about his royal ancestry just in case Queen Anora got wind of his location and decided to send an assassin after him… He was fairly well-known now – thank the Maker Alistair wasn't an uncommon name…

Once in the crowded cubicle Kylon called his office, the Sergeant turned to Alistair with the sort of look a disappointed father might possess. "I thought you were a bit more mature than to respond to the insults of a wanker like Hank," he observed with a quiet anger to his voice. "Instead, you escalated it and smashed his head into a wall."

"I take it that him issuing the first insult and attack means jack?" Alistair asked, losing his feeling of triumph at the aggrieved expression on Kylon's face. Maker's breath, this was worse than disappointing Arl Eamon!

Kylon leaned forward, brown eyes stabbing into Alistair's amber-gold ones. "_Bullies_ react with insults and violence, Alistair. _Watchmen_ keep their cool under fire and only escalate force when necessary. What's acceptable behaviour for a brawler is _not_ acceptable for a Private. Is that clear?"

Alistair hung his head in embarrassment. "Yesser. I… didn't think. He was being a prick and I was sick of it."

Maker, this was worse than getting told off by Arl Eamon and the Grand Cleric at the same time!

"Olin, you'll be joining Alistair on marketplace watch for the next three months," Kylon declared, looking at the casteless dwarf. "Your comments, while accurate and flattering were inappropriate for a Corporal."

Olin sighed and nodded. "Yesser."

Marketplace watch was the toughest assignment short of actually having to go into the back alleys after the organised crime syndicates. _Everybody_ blamed the Guard on marketplace watch for anything that went wrong… Alistair wouldn't be having a pleasant next few months…

But it was still better than being in the Chantry. Alistair would suck up the punishment and prove himself worthy in Kylon's eyes again. He would be worthy of the tabard he wore.


	3. Chapter 2

Note: Thanks for the reviews! Triggering content: implied violence against women. Slight backtrack in time for this to set up things in Antiva and give Mara another POV… I also see Denerim as a smallish city and everyone congregated into the neighbourhood around the marketplace… so that is how some of the main players know of each other. Aren't these little intersections fun?

…

**Chapter 2**

"_Where the willingness is great, the difficulties cannot be great."_

Niccolo Machiavelli

Antiva City, Umbralis 9:28 

Zevran Arainai clasped his hands tightly together to keep them from trembling as he was ushered into the presence of the Crow Grandmaster known as _La Dolorosa._ He was freshly bathed and clad in his finest black silk jerkin and breeches, flaxen hair braided back neatly and stripped of any weapon save the jewelled needles, coated with poison, used to keep his braids in place. When a Grandmaster called for your presence, bare of makeup, scent and weapons, attired as if for the pleasure chamber… One obeyed. Even if the Grandmaster was _La Dolorosa._

The room he walked into was swathed in thick tapestries and dozens of rugs, all made of imported silk from Seheron and Par Vollen, and the simple desk, chair and stool were Orlesian in style and carved from teak. Lanterns of blue and red glass shone through pierced brass coverings, making it hard to see clearly, except for the cobbler's lamp of glass that hung over _La Dolorosa's_ head and revealed her hideously burnt features. Much to Zev's quiet horror, she wore the filmy silks of a Rivaini prostitute… which did nothing to conceal the fact that most of her body was also horribly wasted from fire. But he dared say nothing though he longed for death… for the demise _La Dolorosa_ would give him was a long and horrible one.

"You now belong to me." Through some cruel quirk of the Maker's will, the Grandmaster retained the sensuous contralto she'd once been known for. Through some crueller quirk, she had the power to demand whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, only to be balanced by one man… Rennio d'Antiva. The Maker, being the ironic son of a bitch that he was, had seen fit to make _La Dolorosa_ the enemy of the Grandmaster Emeritus as well as a reminder of the man's past sins.

Zev simply bowed subserviently. "Your will, Grandmaster."

_La Dolorosa _tsked. "I am not Geraldo d'Rialto to demand grovelling. And do not worry, Zevran Arainai; I will request nothing more of you than to look attractive when you come to speak to me. I am not _entirely_ heartless."

She smiled at Zev's subtle twitch of relief, a truly horrific sight as she revealed horribly jagged teeth. "I am also not ungenerous with those who serve me well. Brandy and hashish, men or women, the finest silks all will be yours for simple service… And if you achieve my greatest desire, my position and all that comes with it will be yours. This I swear on my soul; may the Maker forsake me if I lie."

"The death of the Grandmaster Emeritus?" Zev asked carefully.

"Close. He will die soon enough, I think," _La Dolorosa_ replied meditatively. "Though I _would_ step aside should you achieve such a feat, for it means you are strong enough to take my position from me. But I want more than his demise… I want his every waking moment to be agony, either of the flesh or soul; I want his last thought to be despair at the knowledge that all of his planning, his scheming, his alliances were for nothing."

Zev looked thoughtful. "The easiest way to achieve that would be the death of the Couslands in Ferelden, especially the girl Mara and his sister Oriana."

"Hmm… That might be suitable, if on a rather crude level," _La Dolorosa_ mused. "Keep it as a backup plan."

"Perhaps the assassination of key allies, allowing his plans to unravel?"

"Better. Though I suppose your lack of subtlety can't be helped as Geraldo was never fond of teaching his apprentices properly. Murder is all very well, but any fool can inflict pain and death with a knife. The best injuries, the sharpest wounds, are inflicted with tongue and secretive action…"

"…The ruination of the Grey Wardens?"

"Tempting. But no. There are three remaining archdemons, and if the sudden activity of the Grey is anything to go by, one may have awoken." The Grandmaster smiled again. "I am many things, but I have seen the legacy of a Blight in the Anderfels, and I could not wish that on almost anyone. Even maybe Rennio."

Zev wasn't stupid and even though Geraldo had discouraged his apprentices, especially the elven ones, to pay attention to politics, it began to dawn upon him. "His dream of a Thedas united in peace."

"Hmm, only three guesses. I _am_ impressed." _La Dolorosa _nodded in satisfaction. She clapped her hands and a pair of attractive sloe-eyed women from Rivain appeared as if conjured. "You two are to please Zevran Arainai in any way he desires for the week."

As one the women bowed and Zevran followed suit. "You are generous," he said quietly.

"It will be the last bit of comfort you will have for a while," the Grandmaster told him with a crooked grin. "For I fear I must send you to Ferelden. The Couslands have made a profitable alliance with the Howes… and it must be broken by any means necessary."

Zev inclined his head. "I trust I will receive the appropriate information tomorrow?"

"Of course! I am not Geraldo, to send his people in under false information… and then to taunt those who have suffered because of it." _La Dolorosa_ paused as Zevran struggled to keep his features impassive. "Break up the Cousland-Howe alliance in such a manner as to ruin Rennio's reputation and you will receive Geraldo to do with as you please."

Since the death of Rinna, Zevran actually found something to smile about as he bowed his head once more and said fervently, "As you will, Grandmaster."

…

Amaranthine, First Day 9:29

Her life had turned into a nightmare since she'd fallen pregnant.

Mara's hands shook as she fitted the key to Rendon Howe's documents chest, the one in which he kept all of the coded paperwork sent to him by Loghain and the Houndmaster to decipher, and she prayed the rattling of the brass wouldn't draw any attention. She couldn't understand the impulse which had urged her to obey the Hound Daveth's command any more than she could the transition of Thom from caring, thoughtful husband to sadistic brute.

Her entire body was laced with cuts and bruises, healed just enough to leave no permanent damage by Howe's house mage, from what it pleased Thom to call his pleasure. She'd heard rumours that his bedsport was inclined towards the sharper side, but the gradual progression into more… exotic… things had abruptly stopped the night she'd informed him that she believed she was pregnant. The next night had been hard and painful and now a month later she couldn't abide it anymore.

If she could gain the gratitude of a Hound, she might be able to escape safely to Denerim… and on a ship to Antiva. She would need Rennio's help to solve the political mess of annulling the marriage to Thom Howe while keeping the alliance going. Rendon mightn't be sympathetic, but if she had the support of the King and Queen, he would at least back down. She couldn't fault her parents… On paper, it seemed like a good match.

_What made Thom become so cruel to me? How did I disappoint him?_ she wondered as she finally unlocked the chest, looking around in fear at the loud click. But no one came: Rendon was at Vigil's Keep; Thom at the Silken Bed, what passed for an exclusive brothel in Amarantine; Delilah at the shop she loved so dearly; and Nathanial returned to the Free Marches.

It was but the work of a moment to take all the papers and stuff a number of loose sheets of parchment into the chest, leaving Rendon Howe's scribbled notes on top of them to conceal the theft. It was strange but good to be using the espionage skills Rennio had started to teach her and Sister Leliana had refined during her fosterage in Lothering. She was more than just a broodmare and plaything for the Howes; she was the Bann of Whitebridge in her own right and she would have to start doing her true duty by them… She just needed to escape Amaranthine.

She wasn't sure what had led her to establish the identity of Morna, a poor servant girl, in and around Amaranthine. Perhaps it was Thom's insistence she go veiled in public since her tattoo made her look like "an elf or a barbarian" in his words. Maybe it was just to get away and have some kind of interaction with _somebody_ who wasn't a Howe… But now it would be her salvation.

She thought about returning to her room to gather the daggers Rennio had gifted for her but decided against it. "Never let sentiment get in the way of achieving a mission," Leliana had advised her one sunny afternoon in Lothering. So instead she tucked the papers into a messenger's leather satchel and raised her cloak's hood against the chill of First Day before heading to the servants' entrance in the lower kitchen.

Ada, the plump cook who reigned over the kitchen used for the lower staff, looked sympathetically at Mara as she stepped into the warm, bustling room. "Givin' your notice?" she asked gently. The lower servants were _never_ permitted to go upstairs and meet the family…

Mara nodded shyly, feeling guilty for deceiving the kind cook. Howe would be livid… but Maker forgive her, she couldn't remain here. "I've… got to leave. It might be best if no one stays for the master's homecoming."

Eyes widened as the implications of her statement sank in. Then the lower staff, none of whom got on with the upper servants, all decided that leaving without notice might be the best idea. Human, elf and one fat dwarf filed out… but not after the Howe mansion was stripped bare of anything small and valuable that could be carried. The Charitable Guild's fences would be kept busy for days… And her disappearance and theft would be lost in the chaos of a mass defection and looting.

For all her wit and cunning, Mara Cousland was still a young girl; in later days, older and wiser, she would lament the storm her actions unleashed. But at the time all she felt was the triumph of vengeance achieved as she practically skipped to meet the Hound Daveth at the Crown and Lion…

…

Denerim, Early Pluitanis 9:29

Bann Teagan Guerrin of Rainesferre was typically a quiet man, not given to demonstrations of temper or even indulging himself in bouts of swearing… But the news which trickled in from Amaranthine was enough to make him reconsider his subdued, urbane demeanour.

Arl Rendon Howe's house had been ransacked by defecting lower servants, no doubt sick of mistreatment by the Arl and his youngest son, and during the chaos two things vital to the stability of Ferelden had disappeared: the pregnant Mara Howe, linchpin of the alliance which kept Highever and Amaranthine from each other's throats, and a number of sensitive papers. Much to the Bann's anger, the papers had surfaced in the murky undercurrents of international espionage… along with rumours that a Hound had been involved.

Teagan was the Houndmaster of Ferelden, a spymaster dedicated to maintaining domestic stability and security; not even Cailan knew his identity because the King had a big mouth when drunk… Well, that wasn't strictly true. Cailan had a big mouth _always._ The Houndmaster's identity could never be compromised lest Ferelden fall into anarchy… and given the amount of social soirees Teagan attended and gathered information on, it would be… awkward… were he to be discovered.

And now the _piece de resistance_ had arrived on his desk, delivered by courier this morning: somebody had taken the time to bind Thom Howe to his own whipping post and torture him to death using the… implements… the younger Howe son had liked using. In a less chaotic time, with reports of the darkspawn presence lessening in the Deep Roads and Duncan getting more assertive as Warden-Commander of Ferelden, Teagan might have found some bleak amusement in the ironic appropriateness of his demise… But not at the moment. It just made him angrier.

The Houndmaster rarely played the Game of Princes but with a Blight potentially on the horizon, a feud between two of Ferelden's highest families likely to begin, a pupil of Rennio d'Antiva's missing and a renegade Hound on the loose, he would have no choice. Cailan was heirless, him and/or Anora potentially sterile… They needed a clear line of succession and there was only one young man who could secure it.

He wrote a short coded note and summoned one of the few elite agents that knew his true identity. "Take this to Sergeant Kylon," he ordered the man. "He will know what it means."

The agent nodded and left hastily; Teagan breathed a sigh of relief. At least there was one person kept on a leash since this trouble had started… He indulged himself in a glass of port and murmured a quiet but heartfelt "Fuck!" just before he swallowed it in one gulp. It was going to be a long and troublesome year…

…

Having Teagan Guerrin hold him by the short hairs and command his obedience as a Hound of the King gave Nathanial Howe a mingled sense of frustration and satisfaction as he ghosted over the roofs of Denerim along the Thieves' Road. Becoming the running dog (literally) of a rival noble was hard enough, but at least the Houndmaster appreciated his services and rewarded him well. Damn the bastard for having good night vision and an eye for details…

At least Teagan was more interested in Ferelden's wellbeing than the advancement of the Guerrins, Nate supposed as he dropped into an alleyway several blocks from the marketplace barracks for Denerim's City Guard and assumed his typical casual walk. He could have ruined the Howes socially after what Rendon had done… but instead chose to try and preserve the alliance with the Couslands. Bryce Cousland was a nobleman in the truest sense: dedicated to justice, temperance and doing what was right above all other things. Between Nate knocking Mara up and Thom using the girl for a plaything, the Howes had given the Teyrn several reasons to declare war… and he would, for his daughter's sake, because he genuinely loved his children instead of using them as pawns.

Nate's darker side, the one that found pleasure in the murder game, was pleased with the opportunities presented by the chaos… And Maker help him, he was more than pleased at the thought of Thom dying so ironically. He was tempted to go to Highever, confess his part in the whole affair and beg the Couslands for help in taking the Arling from his terrible father. Just a few hints dropped about his childhood and Bryce would be happy to aid him…

But Teagan would kill him. Well, have him killed. The Bann was a reasonable fighter but nothing compared to Nate or Fergus or even Rendon…

He delivered the note to Sergeant Kylon, whose brown eyes widened on receiving it, and then decided to stop by the Wicked Wench for a drink and a game of poker whilst trying to see if the League of Honest Businessmen knew anything about the theft of the coded papers. They disliked disorder as much as any reasonable organisation did and since they also kept their members in check, Nate found it easier to work with them than against them.

He was halfway down Twobit Lane when a familiar profile caught his attention… Maker's breath, could it be _her_? The hair was the wrong colour – a dull, flat brown instead of the white-gold tresses he remembered burying his hands in every time he reached climax – but the delicate nose, full mouth and stubborn chin were the same. But gone was the light girlish grace, replaced with a tight, tense economy of movement, and her bare forearm revealed a fine pale scar…

Mara Howe was leaning close to a scruffy-looking dark-haired young man with the look of a Korcari villager about him, making angry gestures; on closer perusal, he could see her face was pinched, her wrists were thin, and her belly just budding beneath the rough linen shift she wore. Nate's hands clenched into fists as the marsh man whined something about a lack of money and Mara's acidic rejoinder about there always being enough for booze…

Had the chaos which enfolded the Howe mansion that fateful First Day forced Mara to take refuge with that marsh scum? Or worse yet – had she snapped, killed Thom and fled into the stews of Denerim in an attempt to hide?

Finally the marsh man stalked off with an angry growl, leaving Mara shouting Chasind obscenities after him with a fervour that made Nate grin despite the real concern he had. It was also entirely possible that Mara was responsible for the theft and selling of the papers, which would be treason in the eyes of the Crown. She _was_ a pupil of Rennio d'Antiva after all…

But if she'd been _that_ good, she'd have left herself enough cash to leave Denerim on a boat for Antiva by now. _If_ she had anything to do with it, it was either a spur of the moment thing or a short-sighted act of vengeance…

He needed to investigate properly before he brought this to Teagan. It might help to begin with that marsh man she was obviously in a relationship with…

…

Daveth scratched the light beard he'd picked up in Amaranthine, muttering about stupid stubborn women under his breath as he navigated the maze of Denerim's stews. Morna had absolutely no experience with being hungry or poor, he could tell by her unrealistic demands about a ship to Antiva. Her carping about his inability to bring in a regular income was starting to get on his nerves…

…At least she was good in the sack. Good enough to be a whore – and when he made the suggestion that she let the dye grow out from her hair and go for an interview at the Pearl, mostly out of frustration because she seemed to expect _him_ to bring in the money, he discovered she had a good nut-cracking kick. At least it had shocked her into taking in laundry…

He was kinda pissed to realise she was a few months pregnant. The _last_ thing he needed was a Howe bastard to take care of. But he couldn't quite abandon her since she'd wound up in this predicament partially because of him and his lies about being a Hound.

Maker's wrinkled nutsack, Morna was enough to drive him insane. He decided that it wouldn't be a bad idea to try for a big score, just so he could give her some sovereigns and be rid of her…

Lo and behold! An opportunity too good to pass up walked out of a nearby alley: an older guy, dark-skinned and hook-nosed, dressed in some kind of white robes and silverite plate. He had a big fat purse dangling temptingly from his lower belt… And he was distractedly talking to a pair of casteless dwarves who screamed Carta thug – even if the red-haired girl with the scarred face had a nice rack. It was nicer than Morna's, who was rather small-breasted.

Daveth casually crossed the street, looking everywhere but the mark, until he was within a knot of people that jostled close to the bloke. Then he 'accidentally' bumped into the Rivaini, little dagger slitting the strings of that nice fat purse within a single heartbeat as he continued onwards towards an intersection which would allow him to double-back and return to Morna.

A startled shout, much closer than he liked, alerted Daveth to the fact the old bugger had figured out he was robbed. The thief tucked the purse into his tunic and began to run for the intersection, praying that he wouldn't get caught by the Rivaini…

…Well, the Maker answered his prayers… in a rather ironic fashion. Daveth ran right into a City Guardsman who looked suspiciously like the fresh-faced Chantry boy he'd robbed before his departure for Denerim…

_Oh fuck._ The Chantry boy was now about two inches taller, four inches broader in the shoulders and had the hard expression of an experienced guardsman. Now sheathed in grey iron chainmail with a good shield and sword on his back, he actually smiled as he recognised the thief who'd stolen his stuff while he was half-asleep. Then he lashed out with a gauntleted fist, catching Daveth under the chin and knocking him out cold.

…

Alistair grinned as he hauled up the unconscious thief by the scruff of his neck, recognising the slubby cloak he'd been given by the Chantry. It didn't matter that he now owned a better one; he just didn't like thieves and this bastard was a particularly notorious one. And there was a poor pregnant Lothering girl he'd seen doing laundry who could use the cloak…

"That's Daveth the Deft! Nice catch, Alistair!" Yarin said, her expression pleased, as the Private dumped the scum at the feet of her and Sergeant Kylon. Hatchet-faced and ugly as a drunken dwarf's bare backside, Yarin nevertheless possessed a kind heart beneath her crude exterior; if Kylon was kind of a father figure to Alistair, then Yarin was sort of a mother figure.

"He stole my cloak and backpack just after I left the Chantry," the royal bastard explained as he removed the purse he'd seen the thief tuck into his tunic. "He's still wearing it too."

Yarin raised an eyebrow. "You have a better one…"

"Yeah – but you know that brown-haired girl with the Chasind tattoo who does the laundry every Makersday? I think she could use my old cloak."

Kylon's mouth quirked. "You're a good lad, Alistair," he said approvingly. Then he looked up at the gallows which hung at the intersection. "Anybody got rope? Daveth's been caught for the fatal third time."

The sound of panting caught their attention as Yarin was about to go find some; Duncan of the Grey Wardens came jogging up, breathing heavily as he slowed to a stop. "There's… my… purse," the Warden-Commander of Ferelden gasped, a wry expression on his face. "By the Maker and His djinn in the Fade, it's been a long time since a cutpurse robbed me."

Alistair tossed the purse to the Rivaini, who caught it neatly. Then he looked at Yarin as she borrowed some rope from a shopkeeper; in anticipation of a good hanging, the people of Twobit Lane, Little Nug Street and Donkey Alley were gathering around them. "Ah… Can I have him? Anyone who can rob me has to be good at what he does."

Kylon muttered something about Duncan and a donkey under his breath before saying aloud, "You're invoking the Right of Conscription, aren't you?"

Duncan nodded as Daveth stirred. "Yes, I am."

"Rivaini son of a bitch," Yarin told the Warden-Commander forthrightly, making the dark-skinned man grin.

"I love you too, Corporal," he replied mildly.

Alistair couldn't believe this little bastard was going to be made a Grey Warden! But he wasn't going to make an arse of himself and say anything, so he settled for stripping the dazed thief of cloak, boots, belt (and beltpouch) and leather jerkin as Duncan raised an eyebrow. "There's people who can use this stuff," the Chantry boy said defensively.

A single raised eyebrow was Duncan's response as Yarin snickered. Daveth, shivering in the cold, came to and glared at the Private. "Hope your testicles rot," he said curtly in Chasind.

Alistair, who'd done some training under a templar of Chasind blood fond of using curses from his grandmother's people, simply grinned at the thug and replied, "Thank you for your charitable contribution to the welfare of the poor people of Denerim, Daveth." He'd learned his lesson from the brawl with Hank.

Daveth looked sick and Duncan actually smirked, the expression surprisingly young for such an aged, worry-worn face. "Come along," the Warden said as he hauled the thief to his feet. "You have a lot to do and little time to do it."

"Ah fuck…" Daveth muttered as he was dragged away. Alistair grinned and waved after him. Yeah, it sucked he was going to be a Grey Warden, but at least he'd do _something_ worthwhile with his life.

Someone else chuckled grimly and Alistair turned to see a long-faced, hook-nosed man with braided black hair and a fine longbow looking intently at him. "Hand over the beltpouch, Private," the man ordered, offering a hand which had a golden ring on the middle finger. Given that the ring was shaped into the form of a snarling mabari, sign of the Hounds of the King, Alistair promptly obeyed as Kylon eyed the archer with some concern.

The Hound rummaged around and drew out a ring similar to his, but made of bronze. "Son of a whore," he hissed in fury. "Shit. Can't touch the fucker either."

"Imposter?" Kylon asked shrewdly.

The Hound nodded curtly as he tossed the ring back into Daveth's beltpouch. "This is now a matter of national security. Discuss it and you will be guilty of treason."

Alistair felt a cold chill slip down his spine. Politics, the one thing he knew he had to stay away from. But he nodded quickly as Kylon and Yarin muttered their assent. He didn't want to be killed.

The Hound looked at him penetratingly, long enough for Alistair to realise he knew _exactly_ who the royal bastard was related to, before nodding deliberately and vanishing into the crowd.

Maker's breath. Life was just about to get a whole lot worse.


	4. Chapter 3

Note: Thanks for the reviews! This chapter's going to be all over the place timeline-wise… I also see Thedas as a small place politically: the major players of the Game know of each other, even if they haven't met. Cameos of some of my N/PCs from other universes will be sprinkled in here… Yes, Sereda Aeducan is canonically an evil bitch. :P Zevran's armour comes from a mod known as 'The Glorious Zevran' at .

…

**Chapter 4**

"_The wise man does at once what the fool does finally."_

Niccolo Machiavelli

Antiva City, Mid-Pluitanis 9:29

Only the delicate crystal goblet's previous existence as a possession of Rennio's late and lamented mother Veronica kept it from being thrown against the wall in a fit of rage. Instead the Grandmaster Emeritus deliberately consumed the brandy he'd poured and then set it down deliberately on a beautifully carved side table of mahogany. A painting of King and Queen Anora, rendered horrifically in garish colours upon cheap black velvet, was not as fortunate as he drew his knife and rendered it into so many ragged shreds until he was trembling with fury and exhaustion. So easy to fall into rage these days…

He cursed himself for not following Roberto's suggestion of having Ignacio murder Thomas Howe immediately. From what he knew of Nathanial Howe, the assassin known as the Archer in the Free Marches, the man was pragmatic, somewhat ruthless and moderate in his vices… With Thomas dead, Mara would have had to be wed to him instead.

But that opportunity was dead and gone, much like Rendon's youngest son was dead and the daughter of his heart gone. Bad enough that sensitive papers from several different nations had been stolen from the Arl of Amaranthine and then sold on the black market but Queen Anora had dispatched a letter via bonded courier that outright blamed _Rennio_ for the First Day incident and Thomas Howe's murder… It wasn't the accusation that offended him, it was the assumption he was _that_ obvious and tacky.

When Rennio determined somebody would die, he did not indulge himself in cruel and horrific means of vengeance; he simply had them murdered cleanly. He'd learnt _that_ lesson with Catina Seforzina… The woman now called _La Dolorosa._

He looked at the pile of letters which had trickled in since two weeks after First Day: Marjolaine, that Orlesian virago, complimenting him on such an exquisitely ironic murder; Bryce Cousland, asking if he knew anything of Mara's whereabouts and begging him to find her; several Warden-Commanders making pointed suggestions he go on the Calling (Duncan wasn't one of them, surprisingly); and Sereda Aeducan asking for pointers. But it was the latest one, a simple square of flawless ivory vellum scented with a light amber-rose perfume which gave him pause for concern.

_"It is a shame about your foster daughter's husband, Rennio. I hope the Maker is kinder to him than he was to me."_

_La Dolorosa_. Catina Seforzina. Once one of the most beautiful women in Antiva until she became involved in the Game after her brother's death by Rennio's hand… Her retaliation had killed Veronica and nearly Oriana too; the Black Griffin's counterattack left her a living piece of charred meat. And so the greatest enmity the Antivan Crows had ever known was born.

Rennio had realised what was wrong with his choices after what he did to Catina; so was his dream of a Thedas united in peace, handling disputes through diplomacy, born. All of his alliances, murders, defamations and other actions throughout Thedas were in pursuit of this one goal. But like the shadow of sin born from man's pride, Catina put her efforts towards undermining everything he did. He could not fault her, even now.

It was some small mercy she would not kill Oriana or Oren because neither were players of the Game. Mara, if she was responsible for the theft of the papers (and it was possible), would be fair game though…

The Grey Wardens would have to do without him; Rennio had far greater concerns than an archdemon on his mind. It was time – and more than time – that Catina Seforzina and her lackeys were reminded of why Rennio was called the Prince of Crows…

And if the sin should fall upon his soul then so be it.

…

Denerim, Early Pluitanis 9:29

_Ferelden smells like mud, dog shit and wet fur, _Zevran thought sourly as he watched the comings and goings of the people within Denerim's marketplace. He'd hoped for something loosely resembling the sensory cacophony that was Antiva's legendary Day Market… But the only place that smelt right was Master Ignacio's stall. Ignacio, a cautious and conservative man, had quickly realised Zevran's new allegiance from the tattoos that now curled from the side of his neck to his wrist… The Master was closer to Rennio than _La Dolorosa_ but he was wise enough not to antagonise the Black Griffin's archrival. So Zev was permitted to sit and observe…

That the raw, blustery wind and muddy ground were claimed to be signs of early spring was offensive to the Antivan elf. Spring was a time of blooming flowers and sweet scents, not muddy hues and grey skies. Still, there was a certain sturdy attractiveness to some of the Fereldans he beheld, like that tall Guardsman with the brandy-coloured hair and broken nose who stood guard during the early evenings near Wade's Emporium…

The Guardsman's amber-gold eyes found Zev's face and the elf smiled charmingly at him; a narrowed gaze and visibly snort was his only answer as the man looked past him. Bored, Zevran followed the direction of the human's gaze and found himself looking at a tiny slip of a human woman, her belly gently swelling beneath a rough linen shift and ragged canvas skirt, as she haggled over the price of three bars of scented laundry soap with Cesar. Her dull brown hair (obviously dyed) was pulled into a loose knot and she had some sort of exotic barbarian tattoo around her left big eye. Pity she was pregnant and half-starved; she was pretty enough to work at the Pearl…

Eyes blue as a winter's sky flickered over to Zev and he smiled sweetly; surprisingly, once she noticed his facial tattoo, her face went white as milk and she simply shoved a handful of coins at Cesar, grabbed the soap and ran away. The Crow Journeyman realised that she recognised the tattoo… and had reason to flee. There was something familiar in the lines of that heart-shaped face… and he'd heard the faint accent of a Northern Antivan… Maybe she was a runaway apprentice or had angered a Crow? Zev would have to investigate.

_La Dolorosa_ had been pleased with the execution of Thomas Howe; as a woman wronged, she was always glad to see another predator murdered in an appropriate fashion. That it caused instability for Rennio's allies was even better. "See if you can find the girl Mara and offer her sanctuary with us," her last letter, enclosed with a package containing the finest drakeskin armour he'd ever seen…

He wore it now: black and silvered dragonbone chain, matching boots, belt and gloves, and a fine pendant of black jet and an amethyst and gold ring to match… _La Dolorosa_ also included fine dragonbone dar'misu daggers… She was generous with those who served her well, and even though Zevran had confessed the start of the chaos between the Howes and the Couslands wasn't his doing, she'd still rewarded him for his honesty. As Grandmasters went, there were much worse ones.

It was passing strange that Rennio and _La Dolorosa_ were so much alike: fair to their underlings but ruthless when betrayed, pragmatic yet oddly honourable, capable of equal compassion or cruelty… They hated each other with an unholy passion yet they were so similar…

He turned to study the tall Guardsman again as he watched the girl flee; their eyes met again and if looks could kill, the elf should have dropped dead from the glare he received. Zev smiled and nodded once more, earning an aggravated sigh from Cesar for his blatant daring of the human.

Disappointingly, the Guardsman stayed where he was; Zev would have liked to see if this human was good enough to kill him. Despite the pleasures of service to _La Dolorosa_, he still wished to die, for it was just another form of gilded slavery…

So Zev settled for plucking an expensive orange from Cesar's stocks, much to the human's glaring disapproval, and peeled it casually. Something interesting was going on here and he intended to find out what it was.

…

Alistair looked away from the foreign elf loitering at Ignacio's stall and searched through the crowd for the little laundress. Yarin had done a little digging on her and it seemed her past was a bit checkered; she was known to have come from Amaranthine with Daveth and lived with him before the thief was conscripted. Her name was Mona or Morna; the prostitutes were talking about how the pretty little thing was 'too proud' to open her legs for cash despite bearing a bastard child… There was also a rumour she'd been one of Thom Howe's playthings at one point; maybe that was why she was scared of the Antivan Crow… It had actually been harder to learn about all the things a Guardsman had to ignore in order to survive than it had been to master the regulations they had to follow.

For a moment Alistair wondered if she was the missing Cousland girl and then he snorted. If she'd been Mara, surely she would have hightailed it to Highever by now? All she'd need to do was show up to the Cousland estate or even the Palace to get an escort home…

Though if she was Mara and she'd stolen those papers he'd heard the Hound and Sergeant Kylon discussing, it wouldn't be a surprise to see her lying low. He'd better bring up the possibility with Kylon before doing anything stupid; since Daveth had been masquerading as a Hound, she might be innocent(ish) because all citizens had to cooperate with one of the King's elite spies and assassins or face charges of treason. Maybe she'd thought she was doing the kingdom a favour and trying to protect herself from the Howes…

He hoped Morna wasn't Mara. She seemed like a really sweet, sad girl and he… well… he supposed he wanted to be some kind of knight in shining armour and save her. Kylon was pushing him into the sort of training Corporals got (which was as high as Alistair wanted to go) and he'd like a pretty girl to take care of – and she could take care of him.

But if she was Mara… Maker help them all. Because she'd gone and triggered a potential civil war just to get away from a prick of a husband…

…

_Wonderful. Now we've got an Antivan Crow in service to the enemies of Rennio d'Antiva and the royal bastard from Redcliffe paying attention to Mara,_ Nate thought sourly as he slunk out of the marketplace down Twobit Lane in subtle pursuit of the Cousland girl. The more investigation he'd done, the more he was starting to believe that her theft of the papers was to cover up the removal of a specific set that Daveth had been hired to get… Mara might have the skills of a rogue but when it came to playing the murder game, she was an innocent. When it came to a _lot_ of things, she was an innocent.

Teagan, the clever bastard, had gotten the location of Mara out of Nate by promising he'd reserve judgment on the girl until he spoke to her. Maker, but Nate _hated_ courtiers! He'd decided to fetch the girl now before every other bastard got interested in her…

She was now living in a tiny shack instead of the half-decent room she'd been sharing with Daveth; another reason to want to use the marsh man for target practice. But _noooooo_, Teagan said killing Grey Wardens was impolitic… Even if they were traitors. Maker, that sucked!

Nate slipped into the shack just before she came running up, hiding under the overturned tub to give her some time to calm down. Mara was shaking, eyes wide with fear, as she entered her home and fell to her knees. She began to rock, moaning softly in between muttered prayers in Antivan, and Nate realised she was speaking the verses spoken by a person condemned to die. She expected to be murdered at any moment… Maker's breath, what had she done? Did she kill Thom too?

He lifted the tub and her eyes opened, going flat and bleak as she recognised him. "I suppose you are here to kill me then," she said softly, that faint Antivan drawl with the Lothering lilt tinging it reminding him of more pleasant times.

"No," Nate promised softly as he rose to his feet in one lithe movement. He lifted his hand to show her the golden snarling mabari ring. "I'm here to get answers. The Houndmaster wants to hear your side of the story before he makes a judgment."

Mara shrugged too-thin shoulders bleakly. "Daveth said he was a Hound and he had the ring. I should have realised it was a lie because I _know_ the rings are silver and gold instead of bronze… He wanted a particular set of papers; somebody had hired the Charitable Guild in Amaranthine to fetch them. I… took all the papers, to cover my trail, and told the servants to live – they know me as Morna – to make sure your father couldn't hurt them."'

Nate looked her squarely in the eye and he said, "Did you kill my brother?"

Her smile was bitter. "No. But whoever did, I would think them… What did I do to make him go from kind to cruel so soon, Nate?"

A tear trickled down her cheek and he remembered this girl was barely sixteen… and realised that she didn't know he'd taken Thom's place in her bed until she was pregnant. Maker, what a mess!

He inched closer, hand automatically reaching out to wipe that tear from her face… And then her eyes hardened and she grasped his arm to pull him into a throw. Nate grinned savagely as he allowed her control long enough to pull him forward… and then rolled over neatly, pinning her beneath him. "Good move, sweetheart," he rasped as she tried to buck him off by writhing desperately; his mind flashed to another time when she'd writhed under him, for though an entirely different reason.

"But there's something you need to know before you try to kill me," he murmured into her hair as she went still, trembling with fear. "The reason 'Thom' went from kind to cruel was… Well, I bedded you until you were pregnant."

Those winter-sky eyes widened. "What?" she yelped, fear fading into a flash of shocked anger.

Nate deliberately ground his hips against her in a way he _knew_ she'd remember; instinctively, she arched her back and relaxed minutely. "My late and unlamented brother was sterile," he explained quietly. "And since I looked a lot like him…"

Mara nodded slowly, her expression a little confused. "Why didn't your father just marry me to you then?"

Nate laughed bitterly. "My father let me near that much power? Don't joke like that!"

"Oh." Suddenly the tension ran out of Mara's body and she went limp, her expression resigned. "I… took the papers, but I didn't kill Thom. Nor did I ask anyone to do so."

Nate nodded thoughtfully, rolling over to the side and bringing Mara with him so he wasn't squashing the child in her belly anymore. "I believe you. But the Houndmaster will want to question you personally. He's a… reasonable man."

Mara sighed. "I have committed treason, Nathanial, and I must face the judgment of the Crown… Besides, I am already a dead woman. One of _La Dolorosa's_ people saw me today. He will try to kill me on her orders to hurt Rennio."

_That blasted elf,_ Nate thought… and then figured out a subtle way to run interference with the Antivan – and test the mettle of the Redcliffe bastard.

Mara struggled to her feet, surprising the archer with the speed she moved. "Let us be done with this, Nathanial. I have run and hidden for too long. It is time I lived up to my responsibilities as a Cousland and the Bann of Whitebridge."

Unthinkingly, Nate's hand slid down her back and she flinched, looking back at him. "Please… don't. Thom would do that to me before he got out the whip…"

It was then Nate realised that whatever had gone on between them before, it could never be the same again because of his brother's actions. His bastard father had a lot to answer for…

He followed Mara from the hovel, trying to ignore the slump in her shoulders and the way she hung her long, dyed hair to hide her face. He was so busy staring at the tops of his boots that he managed to miss the Antivan Crow elf watching them curiously from the rooftop… or the royal bastard traipsing down Little Nug Street with a bundle of thin, grey wool and a basket of food who stopped and stared in shock.

Denerim was a small place, and when he realised just how damned small it was, he wouldn't be pleased.


	5. Chapter 4

Note: Thanks for the reviews. As noted in other stories, _dweomer_ syndrome is my Thedas version of high-functioning autism; it's also called (somewhat inaccurately) 'semi-Tranquility' or 'natural Tranquility'. Also, very short chapter because I want to do a time-skip in the next one.

**Chapter 4**

"_A wise man will see to it that his acts always seem voluntary and not done by compulsion, however much he may be compelled by necessity."_

Niccolo Machiavelli

Denerim, Early Pluitanis 9:29

For someone Rendon Howe was describing as a deceitful little bitch with all the treachery of an Orlesian whore, Mara Howe was remarkably thin, malnourished and quietly terrified, Teagan Guerrin decided as Nathanial escorted the big-eyed girl into his small, comfortable office within a lesser-travelled part of the Royal Palace. Oh, he was certain the girl was cunning enough and might even be dangerous now and then, but few sixteen-year-olds would let themselves get into such a state of poverty and desperation to play the victim – unless they actually were. The Houndmaster recalled some of the abuse survivors he'd seen over the years and no matter what, _something_ always lingered in the back of their eyes. Beneath the fear and sharp intelligence in those overlarge eyes, knowledge that the world was _not_ a nice place glinted alongside a cold anger which would be frightening when unleashed.

Teagan wished he could reassure the girl but her actions had brought Ferelden to the brink of civil war. It would take some delicate diplomacy and all of Anora's frank charm to keep the Couslands and Howes from each other's throats; Cailan, sad to say, would blunder through this situation like a bronto in a china shop.

If Mara wasn't pregnant, he would call into Duncan of the Grey Wardens to conscript her; as a Cousland and pupil of Rennio d'Antiva, she would possess decent combat skills with the promise of more when properly trained. But that, alas, was no option – the Rivaini man had already told Teagan where to put that idea as the Wardens only conscripted women who were pregnant or mothers of children under five when the situation was truly dire. And to Duncan, some papers of national import popping up on the black market were not 'dire'… When Teagan had suggested waiting until the child was born, Duncan had dryly responded, "I'm not conscripting the girl. Rennio d'Antiva would hunt me down, gut me and loop my intestines around a thornbush and invite a few Blight wolves for a light snack."

So Teagan was left with very few options: Anora had, for the moment, given him great latitude in handling the situation so long as the damage to Ferelden was minimised and all parties were at least quietened.

The most obvious one of marrying Mara to Nate was clearly out of the question by the way the girl acted around the archer; she'd apparently discovered the wedding night deception and didn't look happy about it. A pity because Nate appeared truly taken with the girl – and from what he knew of the pair, they'd be well-suited to each other.

The next option was to keep Mara confined until her child was born and then decide what to do with her. Anora had suggested putting the girl into the Chantry for the embarrassment she'd brought on her family, an idea which had been met with much opposition from the Couslands and fury from Rendon – he wanted blood for the death of his son. And there was no way Teagan could prove Mara had a hand in that, directly or indirectly – he knew a Crow kill when he saw it and there were both friends and enemies of the Couslands and Howes who could arrange such a murder without leaving discriminating evidence.

The third option was to blame Daveth the Deft for everything and return Mara to her parents. Except that the thief had already admitted that he'd been hired to get particular papers by the Charitable Guild of Amaranthine and it had been the girl herself who brought all the papers in that blasted chest. Damn Howe for having lousy security in the first place!

Teagan gestured to the girl to sit down and Nate to leave; when the archer paused and looked ready to argue, a glacial glare from Mara was enough to get him moving. No, the blue-eyed maiden was _not_ pleased with him. Nate sighed and slunk outside, closing the door behind him with a heavy thud.

The Cousland pride ran strong in Mara, Teagan mused as the runaway adjusted her ragged canvas skirt and folded her hands primly like she was there for a polite chat. He tried not to smile at her startled expression on seeing the silver Orlesian champagne bucket he'd brought in case she suffered from a bout of morning sickness or social anxiety.

"If I had known Daveth were not a Hound, I would not have stolen the papers," the girl finally said softly, her voice tinged with the faint drawl and lilt which gave an exotic sound to her Fereldan. "If I had known there were vital national papers in there, I would not have taken them all to cover my theft. And if _I_ had arranged Thom's death, it would have been a tragic accident, not the torturous end he went through."

Teagan's mouth quirked into a quick half-smile at the wry tone to Mara's voice; her dossier stated that she had _dweomer_ syndrome, a peculiarity of the brain which gave her limited empathy and emotional expression but granted her resistance to magic, the Fade and lyrium similar to a dwarf. Many sufferers wound up in either the templars or as servants and agents of the Circle of Magi; Mara, being noble, had obviously been destined for another path. Poor girl; marriage to Thom Howe wasn't something the Bann of Rainesferre would have wished on almost anyone… But the Couslands and Howes had arranged the marriage in good faith and so the girl had no choice.

"I understand the implication that Rennio d'Antiva had nothing to do with it either," Teagan observed aloud. "…I believe you didn't intend to cause this much damage, but you have put Ferelden in a very bad position at the absolutely worst time… and were planning to flee to Antiva besides."

"I was hoping to get Rennio's advice on how to handle the situation and that service to the Crown would allow me to prove I meant no harm," Mara answered, still wryly chagrined. "However, since that _bastardo_ Daveth was not a Hound… I am in very deep trouble. Which is why I have come to you; better to come voluntarily than be dragged in chains."

Teagan inclined his head. "Indeed." Mara may be rash with youth, but she wasn't stupid. "What _are_ we to do with you, Mara Howe?"

The door opened and a woman's light, imperious voice cut through the surprised silence. "Put her in the Chantry, that's what," Anora Theirin, Queen of Ferelden and the country's real ruler in the absence of her husband Cailan's interest, decreed as she swept in.

"I thought the Couslands had objected to that," Teagan said carefully. If Mara sometimes seemed cold and impassive, then Anora at her worst appeared glacial and statuesque. The Queen was all brain and very little heart during a crisis, much like her father Loghain.

"The _Howes_ are the wronged party," Anora said acidly. "Rendon Howe has agreed to retract all accusations of murder and treason against Mara Cousland if she takes vows with the Chantry and relinquish her child to him once it is born."

The Queen regarded Mara with cold sea-blue eyes; the Cousland girl returned it evenly. "I believe, girl, you are nothing but a pawn in the hands of a Crow Grandmaster. If you can give me proof you were acting on the interests of Rennio d'Antiva, I will make certain the Chantry you go to will be a good, comfortable one. If not…"

Mara bowed her head. "My foster father's interest in this country relies upon its stability, Your Majesty. He has investments here and family besides. Why would he work to destabilise it?"

"Perhaps he is plotting with the Orlesians?" Anora suggested icily… Only to be answered with a merry peal of laughter from Mara.

"My foster father would sooner pleasure an archdemon than plot with Orlesians," the girl replied. "He has repeatedly said in his writings that the Orlesians are all flash when it comes to the Game; to him, they lack the class and elegance of Antiva, the flair of Rivain and the precision of Nevarra. And again, to be honest, did my foster father arrange such a thing… You would not know."

Teagan rubbed his nose to conceal another quick smile. Rennio d'Antiva was the most subtle politician in Thedas – and the girl was correct on both counts. But in laughing at Anora, who considered herself a skilful player of the Game, Mara had made an enemy.

"That is what he likely wants you to think," Anora replied icily, secure in her nine years' advantage over the Cousland girl. "I had thought you remotely sensible…"

Mara's eyes were colder than a southern fjord. "I will enter the Chantry of your choice on one condition."

Anora raised an eyebrow. "What condition is that?"

"Delilah raises my child. Give me that much choice, your Majesty, please. I truly believed I was serving the Crown by aiding Daveth…"

Anora nodded. "Very well, that is a reasonable request. Delilah Howe will have custody of the child and you will enter… hmm… Lothering Chantry. You are known well there and could not leave without _somebody_ noticing it… and Bann Ceorlic gives allegiance to my father, obviously."

Mara nodded quietly. "Very well. Thank you for your mercy, Your Majesty."

"It is a pity you didn't show this much wisdom before now," Anora observed dryly. "Look at it this way: you'll never have to worry about another Thomas Howe again."

"That is true, Your Majesty," Mara responded softly, eyes cold as a winter's night. "That is _very_ true."

Satisfied, Anora made Mara sign the appropriate paperwork before sweeping out as imperiously as she'd entered. Teagan watched the Queen go before looking at Mara in surprise. "That was… easily handled, it seemed."

He felt pity for this quiet girl with her sad eyes, forced into the Chantry and deprived of her child because of one mistake. But there was nothing he could do for her but pray her life was less painful from here on in…

…

Denerim, Mid-Pluitanis 9:29

"Thank the Maker this mess is over," Bryce Cousland said with relief as Mara was bundled into a carriage for the trip to Lothering. "Pup… For what it's worth, I'm proud of you for doing this."

_If you think my father's going to let this slide easily, then you're a bigger idiot than I thought,_ Nate Howe thought sourly as he watched the woman carrying his child lean down awkwardly to give her father a hug. Mara had agreed to Anora's demand because there were few other choices; the girl wasn't stupid and at least she'd made sure the newly married Delilah would have care of the baby. Del's husband Albert might be just a shopkeeper, but he was a good man – a better one than the Howes, truth to be told. Rendon had been livid on discovering the secret marriage but there was nothing he could do; the Grand Cleric had refused to annul it, pointing out that it was entered into in good faith and that Albert had loose connections to the Brylands of South Reach (fifth cousin or something like that) so he couldn't exactly say she was marrying a peasant…

Nate got the feeling she'd enjoyed telling the notoriously faithless Arl to essentially go fuck himself. In another time, Nate might have been amused… but he was watching a reasonably innocent girl be punished for being fooled by that bastard of a marsh man and wanting to escape his dickhead of a brother.

Rendon hadn't been pleased to discover that Nate was still in Ferelden and even less impressed that it had been he who delivered Mara to the Houndmaster. He wanted the Cousland girl dead for the murder of his favourite son… regardless of the fact that she had nothing to do with it. He wanted Nate gone because now he was sole heir to Amaranthine (no way under the Maker's light was Rendon going to let Delilah take the title…) and he wanted the bannorn of Whitebridge back because they'd shifted their allegiance to Highever yet again…

No, Rendon wasn't going to take this one lying down. And if Bryce Cousland thought it was over, then maybe it was better he die sooner rather than later because Highever deserved a more intelligent ruler…

The irony of his wish wouldn't be lost on Nate much later when all the blood and tears were forgotten; but at the time, all he felt was anger that a girl he thought might have been a good Howe bride was dispatched to the Chantry because of power plays and rank stupidity…

…

"_If you are without choice or only possess bad ones, always make certain you appear as if you have chosen your course freely. That way your enemies are left thinking they have won when it reality you have gained a victory over them."_

Mara Cousland settled back against the leather cushions of her seat, dog-earring her precious copy of _The Game of Princes_, printed in Antivan and full of notes written by Rennio himself. She had no choices and lacked the life experience to handle the situation properly at the moment, so to Lothering she would go. But if Anora thought that she'd be friendless there, the Queen was very much mistaken.

_Morrigan, Leliana, maybe even the Hawke family if need be,_ she thought quietly. Mara had sworn to take vows and so she would: her faith would be affirmed and she'd swear to live as a Chantry lay sister. But if anyone thought this was the end of it…

…Never again would she lack the strength and knowledge to protect herself. Never again would she rely on anyone but herself. And by the Maker, one day she would take all Rendon Howe held dear.

Exhausted, the girl fell asleep as the carriage rattled on. When she returned to Denerim, things would be much different…


	6. Chapter 5

Note: Thanks for the reviews. I'm going to open up the quotations to other political/social sources because I'm running out of appropriate Machiavelli ones at the moment… Six-month time-skip to bring us closer to the action. ;) Zev's daggers come from the Elvhenan Weapons mod at Dragon Age Nexus. Alistair's arms and armour in this story come from The Determination of Alistair mod at the same place… This story, remember, is massively AU… and I could actually Maric preparing something like this and having Loghain carry it out if necessary.

…

**Chapter 5**

"_I love power. But it is as an artist that I love it. I love it as a musician loves his violin, to draw out its sounds and chords and harmonies."_

Napoleon Bonaparte

Denerim, Matrinalis 9:29

"Oh Chantry boy!"

_That's it, I'm going to kill that bloody elf,_ Alistair vowed silently as he stalked through the crowd towards Master Ignacio's stall. Since that bastard Hound who'd taken Morna away ordered him to keep an eye on the suspected Antivan Crow, he'd been forced to deal with Zevran Arainai at least twice a week. It mightn't have been so bad if the ladies at the Pearl hadn't informed the dark-skinned assassin of the fact that Alistair was still a virgin; the ensuing innuendoes and offers of tattoos and massages were getting beyond irritating. And since punching a _suspected_ Antivan Crow wasn't allowed as per some kind of agreement the Crown had with the hired killers, Alistair had to settle for hoping the elf screwed up somehow and he could get his own back.

Kylon, Olin and Yarin had been sympathetic but the Hound had tied their hands with his orders: Alistair was to watch and handle Zevran on his own. Bastard Hound… If the royal bastard ever saw the long-faced, hook-nosed prick lying face-down in an alley he'd _probably_ leave him there. Maybe. Unless it was treason to do so…

To add insult to injury, Daveth was now a regular fixture in the marketplace as he tried to solicit tithes from the merchants. When Alistair wasn't watching Zevran, the Private followed the thief around like a bad smell, making sure he didn't steal again. Daveth wasn't amused; Alistair didn't care.

"What do you want?" Alistair snarled once he was in speaking distance of the insolent elf. Men and women of all three races who ought to know better giggled and sighed over the Antivan's exotic good looks… Alistair wondered if a broken nose would cure them of their obsession.

"Tsk, Alistairio," the assassin responded chidingly. "I simply wish to ask you a question."

"Ask it then so I can get back to work," the ex-templar said through gritted teeth.

"Why would the esteemed and lovely Queen Anora want to put out a contract on you? Not that I particularly care whatever it is you did, mind you, but I am simply curious."

Alistair went very still as the one fear which blighted his existence was realised. Outside of the Chantry, he was a threat to Cailan's rule, especially since he was a popular member of the City Guard and being groomed as a future leader. Even if Alistair could convince _Cailan_ of the fact he didn't want the bloody throne, _Anora_ would always perceive him as such.

_Shit._ He had two options: run away again, this time into foreign exile… or take the fight to the Palace itself, in a matter of speaking. It was about bloody time the Theirin brothers had a little discussion anyways…

"That's for me to know and you never to find out," Alistair told the elf. "But… could you tell me how much she offered to have me killed?"

"That, my handsome Chantry boy, is for _me_ to know and _you_ to never find out," Zevran retorted sweetly. "Unless, of course, you wish to try a new means of persuasion…?" One slim, dark hand reached out to help himself to an Orlesian orange from a pile of exotic fruits on Cesar's table.

Alistair smiled sharply. "If you eat that orange and don't pay for it, I'll have to arrest you for theft, you know."

Zevran's hand paused in mid-air, honey-brown eyes meeting amber-gold beneath a raised eyebrow. "You mean you'd have to put me in chains and carry me off to a dungeon? Why Alistairio, I never knew my sweet little Chantry boy had such… _interesting_… tastes."

_Blast it. I forgot he was a pervert of the highest order…_ "On second thoughts, I'd have to call Duncan of the Grey Wardens. I hear he's desperate for new recruits and an Antivan Crow would make for a good one."

The elf's eyes narrowed. "What makes you think _I_ am an Antivan Crow?"

Alistair gave the sleek black armour and matching curved daggers a pointed look; if Zevran had been anything other than an Antivan Crow, he would have been stripped of them and executed by now. "Oh, just a hunch."

"So _very_ perceptive of you," Zevran purred softly. "I will answer your question concerning the cost of your assassination in return for the answer to this question: what was your interest in the tattooed girl with the Antivan accent?"

…There was really no point in lying since Morna was long gone. "She was poor, hungry and pregnant, and I felt sorry for her," Alistair admitted quietly. "What was yours?"

"She knew what I was and I wondered how she knew," the elf responded softly. "And… perhaps there was a little pity. Do you know why the Hound took her?"

"I have… wondered," was all Alistair would say. Given that Daveth had masqueraded as a Hound and Morna had been involved with him since they returned from Amaranthine together, he'd begun to suspect she was the infamous Mara Howe, now known as the Runaway Wife. But he was _not_ going to mention that to this Antivan Crow.

"As have I." Zevran toyed with a strip of leather on his war-skirt, revealing a lean swarthy thigh shamelessly. "The grand total of your contract is five gold sovereigns. Apparently Queen Anora doesn't think much of you."

Alistair bared his teeth in something resembling a smile. "Isn't _that_ funny because I don't think much of her."

Zevran snickered. "Oh? I see there are some… _personal_… issues there."

"Yeah." The elf might be an oversexed foreign sonuvabitch, but at least he was mildly amusing and likeable. "So… you going to take the contract, I suppose?"

"Having seen you in combat, my friend, five gold sovereigns is not enough," Zevran said, his tone serious for a change. "I'd need at least… hmm… twenty."

"…I don't suppose you Crows have life insurance, do you? You know, how some of the usurers sell papers that promise a payment to your relatives if you die… Only it'd be, well, money _not_ to be killed by a Crow…"

Zevran laughed. "You would pay us _not_ to kill you? It might be cheaper just to hire me to do away with your enemies!"

"What part of 'treason' do you not understand?" Alistair asked flatly.

"Hmm… Good point. And I doubt you'd have the coin to have Queen Anora killed," Zevran mused. "So… what are you going to do about it?"

Alistair smiled sharply once more. "Go and have a chat with my brother. And you're coming with me."

Zevran looked briefly surprised before that mocking smile fell into place once more. "Oh? And why would I do that?"

"Well, for one, I need a witness. And two, you're obviously a good fighter. And three… I intend to make a point. There's a Blight beginning and the nobility are too damned busy playing politics. You obviously have some standing amongst the Crows – maybe that might convince the Queen to leave me the hell alone and focus on more important things."

Zevran nodded thoughtfully. "Very well. Shall we go then?"

"Yes… Just let me speak to Kylon and get permission first. There's some things he needs to know anyway…"

…

Zevran was beside himself with glee as he rubbed the heads-side of a gold sovereign bearing the face of King Cailan of Ferelden. For something made in a Maker-forsaken shithole, it was finely detailed… and that straight, slightly oversized nose was infamous and instantly recognisable amongst certain circles.

It appeared the rumour of King Maric the Saviour being a naughty little boy and fathering a child upon an elf was true. Alistair (whom he called Alistairio to annoy) had the infamous nose and similar features to the King of Ferelden… but possessed the sharp refinement of an elf-blooded human despite the tall breadth of his powerful frame. Zevran was no idiot; he knew why Anora wanted the bastard dead.

But since the Couslands and Howes had settled into a grumbling truce with the exile of Mara to the Chantry, _La Dolorosa_ had commanded him to find another way to destabilise Rennio's diplomatic efforts. Here was an opportunity offered on a silver platter: popular, reasonably intelligent royal bastard who was slowly getting pissed off with the Queen who persecuted him…

Zevran mused on the fact that Alistair would probably make a better king than the vainglorious Cailan; Ferelden would certainly be in competent hands during the Blight were the royal bastard to take the throne. _La Dolorosa_ found amusement in replacing Rennio's preferred candidates with genuinely better rulers who were beloved of their subjects. She was possessed of a finely honed sense of irony like that.

The one thing which had bothered Zevran was trying to find a recent description of Mara Cousland. Given that she had been forced into exile by Anora, she would make for a powerful ally… But she would also know the markings of _La Dolorosa's_ agents were she to see them and probably flee. But if _Alistair _were to make the approach…

The Antivan elf smiled as the royal bastard returned after a lengthy period of time, dressed in the formal veridium armour used by the Denerim City Guard and accompanied by Sergeant Kylon and a man with long brown hair Zevran realised was Ser Ulrik, the Market Magistrate.

"This could wind up with you in the Grey Wardens," the Sergeant warned Alistair grimly.

"Better that than having to dodge assassins," the handsome man replied flatly. "I'm sick of this shit. And I intend to convince my brother of how supremely uninterested I am in the throne – which is true. I'm happy being a Guard."

_Good luck with that,_ Zevran smiled inwardly as he joined the trio to head up to the Royal Palace. _Because that will only happen when the Maker returns to Thedas._

…

"Hey Teagan. I got a joke for you," Nathanial rasped as he entered the small office the Houndmaster kept for his own.

"Do I want to hear it?" the younger Guerrin brother asked wearily, knuckling his eyes as he pored over reports from the dwarven Shaperate.

"Too bad if you don't. So a royal bastard, an Antivan Crow, a Guard Sergeant and a City Magistrate walk into the Palace to see the King…" Nate concealed a smirk at the subtly panicked expression which crossed that classically handsome face. Teagan Guerrin was everything nobles were supposed to be, everything the Howes were not. Given that he'd put this particular piece on the board of the Game of Princes, he had every right to momentarily shit himself.

The Bann rose to his feet, whipped off a doublet and shirt that were rumpled from long wear, gave his head, arms and torso a quick wash from a towel moistened from the jug of water he kept on the shelf behind him, and then rummaged around until he found a fresh shirt and a formal doublet of green velvet and golden silk. A few strokes of a brush and he was presentable once more despite the shadows beneath those blue eyes. He then grabbed some papers from a file and headed for the door.

Nate, on the other hand, wore his comfortable, well-worn leather armour and carried the Howe bow. If the King didn't like it, Cailan could go fuck himself. If Anora didn't like it, using her for target practice would be a favour to Ferelden…

It was a matter of minutes to get from Teagan's office to the Landsmeet Chamber; Cailan was holding audiences today, a fact Alistair or one of his friends had obviously known and intended to make use of… _This is going to be good,_ Nate thought cynically as they entered; everyone who was anyone was there and their noble rulers were sitting on their joint thrones with different expressions. Cailan looked as amused as Nate felt; Anora looked subtly pissed off.

The archer looked around at the gathered high nobles as lesser courtiers parted for Alistair like the Waking Sea had for Andraste and Maferath on their march to Tevinter. The Couslands had weathered the storm of Mara's actions surprisingly well despite the Queen's open favour of the Howes; Bryce's jaw was set in that stubborn Cousland way, Fergus' dark eyes were hard with anger, and Eleanor and Oriana looked like they wanted to be elsewhere. Rendon Howe's narrow face was pinched and thin-lipped on seeing Nate, who gave him a smile and nod. Arl Eamon Guerrin looked like he was suffering constipation while Arlessa Isolde's mouth opened and shut like a dying trout's. Leonas Bryland and Arl Wulff had avidly curious expressions on their faces… While Loghain, the Queen's father, looked ready to murder the royal bastard for the crime of existing.

"What is the meaning of this?" Anora demanded as Alistair came close to the throne and offered a Guard's fist-to-chest salute instead of the military's cross-armed bow.

"I just thought I'd drop by, Your Majesties, to make something clear to you," Alistair replied in the wryly self-deprecating tone he was wont to use. "_I don't want Cailan's throne._ Could you please stop trying to hire the Crows to kill me and instead, oh, I don't know, focus on the Blight?"

"Perhaps an introduction is in order first…?" Cailan asked pointedly.

"Oh, yeah, I'm Alistair of Redcliffe. Also known as the bastard your father sired on an elven chambermaid, the boy who was dumped in the Chantry on Arlessa Isolde's orders, and the man who really just wants to have a nice, quiet life away from politics."

Cailan blinked stupidly and then grinned. "Nice to meet you, brother! I'd heard you'd left the Chantry and thought 'Good for you!' But what's this about Crows…?"

Alistair gave a pointed look to the Antivan Crow who served Catina Seforzina; the elf stepped forward and bowed floridly. "I am Zevran Arainai, Journeyman Crow in service to Grandmaster Catina Seforzina. Queen Anora's maid Erlina approached Master Ignacio about having Alistairio murdered for the paltry sum of five gold sovereigns in my hearing. I, being much more interested in the stability of Ferelden during a Blight because I happen to like breathing, decided to inform Alistairio of this fact. Oh… that and the fact he's much too pretty to die. That would be a waste."

Both Alistair and Anora went beet-red, though for entirely different reasons: the Chantry boy was embarrassed, the Queen livid. Nate fought hard to stifle a chuckle as a silence cold as a thirty-year marriage bed descended upon the Landsmeet Chamber.

"Five gold sovereigns? Maker's breath, Anora, you're always so miserly," Cailan observed with a sigh. "The standard rate for a bastard prince is at least a hundred sovereigns, you know."

"This is no joking matter, Cailan!" the Queen hissed. "He's a threat to the throne!"

"Actually, Anora, he's the _heir_ to the throne," Loghain interrupted flatly. The Teyrn of Gwaren clanked towards the thrones, craggy face bitter with angry determination. "I do not wish to do this, but Maric left explicit instructions involving Alistair: 'in the event of his father's death, Alistair FitzMaric Theirin is to be legitimised.'"

_"What?"_ Alistair yelped, his startled question echoed by almost everyone else of import in the Chamber.

Nate heard Teagan take a deep breath and step forward. "It is true. I was the other witness to the addendum to Maric's will alongside the Teyrn of Gwaren," the Bann of Rainesferre informed the shocked audience. "For the past five years, Alistair has been legitimate."

"I… wow. And no one saw fit to inform me of this while I was in the Chantry?" Alistair asked, his light tenor dropping volume in visible but held-back anger.

"Nor I," Cailan added, his tone almost identical to Alistair's even if his voice was higher.

Zevran, the Antivan Crow, looked more amused than anything else as the crowd began to babble, everyone wanting their say. Nate took a bitter pleasure in seeing the Queen level an absolutely withering glance upon her father, who endured it in stoic silence.

Finally Cailan raised his hand to get silence. "Well… This was unexpected," he observed with typical Theirin understatement once everyone had shut up.

"I'll say," Alistair muttered.

Cailan smirked. "I also imagine my _darling_ wife was doing what she thought prudent, Alistair. Please don't take it personally: I've been through… hmm… four assassination attempts since I became King."

Anora took a deep breath and forced her expression into composure. "I… apologise, Alistair. There are those who would seek to undermine Cailan's rule – who _have_ tried to do so – and… I chose to err on the side of pragmatism rather than mercy when you left the Chantry."

Nate watched the not-so-bastard prince struggle with his understandable anger. From everything Nate had observed about the Chantry boy, he was no fool… and he was surely realising that now he'd stepped onto the stage, so to speak, he would be a political player whether he wanted to be or not.

"I… can't agree. But I understand," Alistair finally replied flatly. "I… guess I can't remain a plain City Guard now, can I?"

Cailan looked sad as he shook his head. "No, little brother. There's an Arling gone begging and as you say, a Blight is coming."

"Can we be so certain a Blight _is_ coming?" Loghain asked sceptically.

"Duncan's getting more aggressive in seeking tithes and recruits, Shaperate reports are claiming the number of fatalities to the darkspawn has dropped off sharply, and there are increased rumours of darkspawn raids from the Korcari Wilds based on the sudden rise in Chasind refugees," Teagan promptly responded.

"Indeed," Duncan, Warden-Commander of Ferelden, agreed as he stepped forward. "Do you think I would be… _aggressive_… was this not a Blight?"

"We didn't expect Sophia Dryden to be aggressive until she rebelled against the throne," Rendon observed silkily.

Duncan sighed. "I won't bother arguing with you, Arl Howe. When the archdemon reaches the surface, you will see this is a Blight."

"Blight or not, Ferelden requires stability," Cailan decreed as he lounged back on his throne. "Since Vaughn Urien Kendalls was executed for his part in inciting the recent alienage riots and the shock killed his father, the Arling of Denerim is now bereft of a leader."

Nate could see the 'oh shit' expression forming on the royal bastard's face as Cailan kept on talking. Since Teagan had given him orders to have Sergeant Kylon start putting a backbone and leadership skills into Alistair, the archer had realised the Houndmaster was preparing for a moment like this. If Loghain hadn't revealed Maric's will and Alistair had been punished as a traitor for telling Anora off, the Bann would have been in very deep shit right about now.

"You are well known and respected here, brother; I think you'll make a wonderful Arl," Cailan continued cheerfully as Anora began to look slightly sick. Her expression was echoed by most of the high nobles, except for Eamon who looked surprised yet smug and Rendon Howe… who looked avaricious. Trouble would definitely come from his father's direction…

The elf, interestingly enough, was surprised but thoughtful. What was Catina Seforzina playing at? If Ferelden was about to become a battleground between rival Crow Grandmasters, a lot of people were going to be hurt.

Alistair swallowed, visibly stunned, and nodded as he knelt before the thrones to offer his allegiance as the new Arl of Denerim. For all the backbone he'd demonstrated, the youngest son of Maric was about to be tested in ways he'd never thought possible.

Maker help him. Maker help Ferelden. Maker help them all. Because the Game of Princes and the murder game within their nation just had everything overturned by a pair of brothers who'd done the unexpected.


	7. Chapter 6

Note: Thanks for the reviews. Triggering content: imagined violence against women. The timeline of this story as I see it is now about timing of the Origins (which I assume begins in late summer, early autumn). For all intents and purposes, Daveth is the PC!Warden in this narrative; Blight companions will also change on what the plot nugs dictate. If you have any favourites amongst the NPCs, let me know in reviews and I'll think about including them. The only two that are non-negotiable are Alistair and Zevran. :)

I'm… not fond of the Chantry but I intend to emphasise the human aspect of it as personified by Leliana. This is going to be a more nuanced story, I hope, than the original. Some of Rennio's rules are also derived from Jennifer Fallon's 'Rules of Gaining and Wielding Power' from _The Hythrun Chronicles._

For stat purposes if anyone cares, Rennio is about level 35 with the Assassin (duh!), Duelist, Ranger and Shadow specialisations.

…

**Chapter 7**

_If a politician murders his mother, the first response of the press or of his opponents will likely be not that it was a terrible thing to do, but rather that in a statement made six years before he had gone on record as being opposed to matricide._

Meg Greenfield

Denerim, Early Parvulis 9:29

Ferelden was preparing for war.

Daveth stood behind Duncan as he settled into what the Warden-Commander called the 'at ease' position: feet apart, chest out and shoulders straight, hands clasped behind his back. The part-Rivaini had forgone his typical white calfskin and steel plate combination for the formal articulated heavy silverite plate of a Warden-Commander; the marsh man turned thief himself wore iron-studded blue leathers with a longsword and dagger that were all emblazoned with the Grey Warden's rearing griffin. In a place where Grey Wardens were few and the local populace were sceptical about a Blight, it behoved them to act and look professional at all times – or so Duncan claimed. Why he was explaining all of this to Daveth, who truly didn't give a shit, was beyond the pickpocket.

King Cailan was fidgeting like an excited kid forced to stay still as he sat upon the heavy oaken throne with its rearing mabari carved into the arms and back. He was obviously thrilled to be dealing with the 'heroes of legend'; Teyrn Loghain, decked out in that heavy silverite chevalier's plate and the perpetual glower on his craggy face, wasn't so impressed. Daveth didn't know what the new Arl of Denerim, Bann Teagan or the hook-nosed Hound in the corner thought because he was too busy trying not to look at the Chantry boy who he'd robbed and then been arrested by. Talk about fucking awkward!

At least Cailan appeared to be taking Duncan's report seriously, even if it was for the sake of his own vanity. The archdemon roaring in his bloody head all night, every night was enough to convince Daveth! Unfortunately informing the King of Ferelden that the Grey Wardens could peek inside the darkspawn's collective mind was on the 'big no-no' list. Pity about that; a lot of awkwardness would be avoided and everyone would just do what Duncan told them to.

The marsh man tuned out Loghain's endless droning and wondered how Morna was going. He felt lousy for getting her in the shit with the Hounds and nobody would give him a straight answer on what happened to her. He didn't think she'd been executed but there were lots of horrible fates which could befall a pregnant girl who ran afoul of the Crown… Maybe he should've just snuck in and burglarised the place honestly, so to speak.

Duncan, the old bugger, had been the one to have Alder hire him to nick those papers from Arl Howe; they'd been taken from the corpse of a bonded courier sent by Riordan of Jader and contained Grey Warden secrets. And then the Rivaini bastard had the gall to wear a fat purse when he _knew_ Daveth would be desperate… Sonuvabitch!

"I cannot recruit often so I must recruit intelligently," the Warden-Commander informed Daveth when the thief had confronted him about being set up. "You are capable of more than you think, Daveth."

The marsh man's response had been long, alliterative and obscene, using words from several different languages to describe Duncan's personal hygiene, bedroom activities and preference in sexual partners. When he was done, the older man regarded him with that stern, impassive expression he was fond of… and then calmly corrected his pronunciation of several key insults from Rivain, Antiva and Orlais before asking if Daveth was finished. Bastard hadn't even twitched when he was given the finger as the new junior Warden slunk out.

After that, Duncan had taken to dragging Daveth around like a servant, getting him to do this and say that and run some errand to Bann Muckety-Muck of Arse-End… Wouldn't even let him go to the Pearl to see if he could get a Warden's discount at the place…

Daveth tried not to sigh or fall asleep as the King and Teyrn Loghain began to argue over places to fight the darkspawn horde that was boiling out of the Wilds. What happened to 'somewhere far, far away from Denerim'? Nobles sure complicated shit at times…

"Your Majesty," Duncan interjected politely after Loghain called Cailan an idiot for the umpteenth time, "Junior Warden Daveth hails from a small village on edge of the Wilds. Of us all, I believe he knows the area best."

Everyone's eyes riveted on the marsh man as Duncan stepped aside to put him in full view. Daveth quietly thought another long list of swear words as he tried to rack his brains about the best place to stop a horde of mindless tainted monsters. "Huh, most built up place 'round there that ain't fallen down is that old Tevinter fortress, where's them stopped the Chasind."

"Ostagar?" Arl Alistair asked intently.

"Is that what's it called? We just call it 'the old Tevinter place'," Daveth replied with a shrug. "Got a big tower, some bridge an' a gorge an' plenty of walls."

"That's Ostagar," Bann Teagan confirmed. "It appears this Warden has a talent for more than impersonating Hounds."

Daveth would have liked to respond to that with a punch to that straight jaw, but Duncan would kick him in the groin so hard he'd cough up his jewels if he did. So he settled for a jerky nod instead.

"Ostagar would be my first choice of battlefield on which to confront the darkspawn," Loghain agreed grudgingly, obviously pissed at having to approve of something a Grey Warden said. For some reason he didn't like their Order; that was okay, because Daveth was perfectly happy to think he was a dick.

"Then it shall be at Ostagar," Cailan declared enthusiastically. "We will defeat the Blight once and for all there."

"Only if the archdemon rises," Duncan observed calmly, his deep, resonant voice tinged slightly with the faintest hint of dry sarcasm. "That is the only way to truly end a Blight."

"It shall rise when the might of Ferelden confronts its dark and twisted horde!" Cailan exclaimed.

Daveth decided then and there Ferelden was doomed. Being a Grey Warden was slightly better than being hung but he'd need to find the nearest boat to somewhere else other than Ferelden. Maybe Antiva. He'd heard it was nice, warm and full of exotic women and alcohol. He should've helped Morna get there.

He risked a look at the Chantry boy and received a golden-eyed glare. Yup, the new Arl of Denerim held a grudge. Who'd've thought that a guy Daveth thought was too dumb to live would have been a royal bastard? Well, freshly legitimised royal bastard.

King Cailan hopped off his throne. "We can decide upon the specifics of our strategy tomorrow," he decreed. "For now, I have a private meeting to attend to."

"I will have a tactical assessment of the Wardens' current forces available tomorrow," Duncan promised as he offered a cross-armed bow.

"Excellent! Give it to Loghain; he's better at these things than I am," Cailan replied. "Farewell!"

He strode out with his guards falling behind him, leaving two Wardens, a pissed-off Teyrn, a tired-looking Bann, a silent Hound and a glaring Arl staring at each other. Duncan looked ready to make his farewells, but Alistair, Teagan and the Hound stepped forward and fixed the Warden-Commander with expectant gazes. "We need to talk to Daveth," the Bann said bluntly. "He was at least partially responsible for our little security leak."

"Understood," Duncan agreed gravely. "Daveth, if you would tell the Bann what you know?"

"Like how did you get that ring," the Hound rasped. "And what were the papers you were sent to steal?"

"I got the ring made by a forger who's now in the Free Marches, last I heard," Daveth admitted. "Dunno his name."

"And the papers?" Loghain grated.

"I dunno. Ask Alder in Amaranthine. Besides, wasn't _me_ who nicked all of the papers."

Duncan sighed as Teagan glared down at the thief. "No, it was a woman who thought she was serving the Crown," the Bann of Rainesferre observed with icy precision.

"…What happened to Morna, anyways?" Daveth asked, feeling kind of awful about the fact he got away scot-free and she didn't.

"Morna…? Ah, the woman you told to steal the papers," Teagan murmured. "Well, all you need to know is that she's in the Chantry."

Daveth shrugged. Well, she'd gotten out better than most… "Great, good ta know she's well. I've told you all I can."

"I doubt that," Loghain observed sarcastically.

"Really, I told ya all I know," Daveth repeated. "If ya don't mind, some of us got work ta do. Can we go now?"

Duncan sighed as Loghain glowered. "I apologise, Teyrn Loghain," the Warden-Commander responded wearily. "Daveth's manners are a bit… rough."

"You should have let him hang," Alistair said harshly.

Daveth rolled his eyes. "Look, mate, ya was sleepin' in the alleyway with a cloak an' pack. You're lucky somebody didn't cut your bloody throat!"

"Daveth, shut up!" Duncan roared.

The marsh man ignored him. "Oh, an' ya took my cloak, boots, beltpouch an' belt when I was conscripted. Who's the thief now?"

_"Kosma yara,"_ Duncan muttered under his breath.

"I gave your boots, belt and cloak to a poor elven family," Alistair replied quietly. "They made better use of them than you."

"Perhaps, my lords, we should retire to consider our strategic assessment for His Majesty tomorrow?" Teagan suggested urbanely.

"What? Just when things were getting entertaining," the hook-nosed Hound complained.

Duncan and Loghain gave almost identical aggrieved sighs. "I'll see you tomorrow," the Teyrn of Gwaren said curtly before stalking out of the throne room.

"My apologies," Duncan told the three remaining noblemen before grabbing Daveth's arm to drag him out. The marsh man went along with it… but expressed his opinion of the Chantry boy turned lawman turned Arl with a single outstretched middle finger on the way out.

Never had cleaning the privy been so worth seeing the same outraged, pissed-off expression on three different faces.

…

Lothering, Mid-Parvulis 9:29

The labour took nearly two days and almost ended in the death of mother and babes if not for the presence of a Senior Enchanter known for her healing abilities in the large village. But finally Sister Mara of the Lothering Chantry was delivered of twins, a son and daughter, in the company of the Revered Mother and her best friend Sister Leliana after enough screaming and cursing to leave her throat raw.

It had been several long months in Lothering, her every movement watched by the beady-eyed seneschal of Bann Ceorlic while trying to reacquaint herself with the friends she'd made during fostering. It would be a trying month or more as she observed the lying-in period for her body to recover from the trauma of childbirth. And only the Maker knew when Rendon Howe or Queen Anora would dispatch someone to take her children from her…

Much to Mara's surprise, being in the Chantry had been good for her beyond continued lessons in the Orlesian variant of the Game. The slow, gentle routine and the genuine sense of community that the sisters had eased her troubled soul in ways not even regular letters from her mother and sister-in-law could. She'd come to the Chantry vowing to trust none but herself… but a particularly horrible bout of weeping that brought half the sisters running to her side made her realise that there were people who were willing to help for the sake of helping others. _Some_ people. Not all. And unfortunately the Chantry would not help her in what she had to do to ensure the safety of her children.

Delilah would keep them safe as she could but these babies were pieces in the Game of Princes; Mara would be remiss as a mother if she did not do something about this. How many children had suffered for some politician's visceral victory over another? Leliana's history with Marjolaine, confided to the expectant mother as they worked in the Chantry's vegetable garden, revealed how the Game twisted and ruined lives.

_"Have something other than the love of power to seek it,"_ Rennio had once told the big-eyed girl he called the daughter of his heart. For the Antivan Crow Grandmaster, it was a Thedas united in peace through diplomatic means; for Mara, it would be her children… _All_ children.

But for now, she could hold her babies and let them suckle; the Revered Mother had vowed she would delay the Queen's agents as long as possible. But for now, she could have a moment of peace before revaluating her decisions – past, present and future.

Nothing would ever be the same – not for her, not for Ferelden… maybe not even for Thedas.

…

Denerim, Late Parvulis 9:29

So Nathanial was a father.

Mara had informed Delilah via a short note that Senior Enchanter Wynne thought her twins should remain with her until her lying-in was complete and the Howe Rose had readily agreed. Pregnant with her own babe, Del had agreed to take on her sister-in-law's offspring because the only other alternative was to have Rendon or Nate raise them. In his more self-aware moments, the archer had to agree with the women – because his father was unfit… and Nate couldn't stand the thought of looking at children whose mother was being forcibly separated from them because of one old bastard's lies and another bastard's cruelty.

In his angrier moments, he wanted to ride to Lothering and use every trick in the book to get Mara to marry him – for the children's sake, of course. But the coldness in her winter-blue eyes whenever she looked at him after he'd confessed the bed trick he'd played on his father's orders stopped him. Nate had never forced a woman and he wasn't about to start, even if it cost him his kids and their mother.

It didn't help that the new Arl of Denerim had figured out 'Morna's' identity or that they had no idea who wanted those bloody papers. Alder had wound up face-down in Amaranthine Harbour with a cut throat; somebody was playing both Games here and it was really starting to piss Bann Teagan off.

To top it all off, Duncan of the Grey Wardens was showing his swarthy face at the major tournaments and trials throughout Ferelden; he'd already helped himself to one of Highever's better knights Jory in addition to Daveth. The Wardens of Jader were also dispatching their entire garrison to Ferelden, a fact which sent Loghain's xenophobic paranoia into overdrive, and Cailan had been in discussions with the Empress of Orlais concerning a peace treaty. If Ferelden were facing a Blight…

Nate was honest enough to admit there were a few nobles, including his father that he wouldn't miss if darkspawn ate them. But the murder game reaching boiling point and the Game of Princes simmering because of the uneasy truce between the Howes and the Couslands meant that resources were going to be wasted fighting each other instead of the Blight. And innocents were going to die because of it…

He wasn't so sure why the thought of innocents bothered him so much when kids stopped being innocent the day they started breathing. Maybe it was the idea of his kids growing up like he and Del and Thom had, fighting each other for every scrap of attention and affection from their parents because that was 'the way the world was' – or so Rendon Howe claimed. The Couslands were close to each other even if Mara had been fostered for most of her life; Rendon claimed it would be their weakness and downfall.

"When a Howe starts brooding, I start getting nervous," Bann Teagan observed from the doorway; Nate turned from the office window to face the auburn-haired man with a twisted smile.

"I'm a father now. Figure that gives me some right to brood."

Teagan inclined his head. "Very much so, Nate, and I'm sorry for making a jest of it."

Nate shrugged. "Don't bother, Houndmaster. It's a pretty fucked-up situation and I'm glad _somebody_ has found some humour in this."

"Have you considered speaking to Bryce Cousland? The man has his moments, but he's not unreasonable – and he'd be sympathetic to you if the truth was revealed."

The archer shook his head slowly. "No. My father would try to murder me if I so much as coughed in the Teyrn of Highever's direction. And if Cailan and Anora think dumping Mara in the Chantry's going to stop a burgeoning blood feud, at least on my father's side, he's dumber and she's more naïve than I thought."

Teagan sighed. "The Couslands consider the matter finished."

"The only reason no one's tried to murder Bryce and Eleanor Cousland for the past nine years is because Rennio d'Antiva made it abundantly clear that they were under his protection," Nate pointed out disgustedly. "Fergus, I think, has the mettle to play the Game of Princes – but none of them, excepting Mara, have the ability to cope with the murder game."

The Bann raised an eyebrow. "You think Mara can play on both levels?"

Nate smiled grimly. "The pupil of Rennio d'Antiva who happens to be in the same Chantry as a student of the Orlesian bard Marjolaine and said to be great friends with her?"

Teagan's eyes narrowed. "…Do you think these current problems are a manifestation of the conflict between Rennio and Catina Seforzina?"

"Catina's got her finger in the pie for sure," Nate answered flatly. "Thom's murder… too damned obvious. Since he set fire to that bitch in her castle and she survived, the Prince of Crows has preferred surer, subtler deaths to painful ones."

Teagan nodded thoughtfully. "And there's nothing in Mara's personality profile to indicate she would be so blatant either. And several people have confirmed she was meeting with Daveth at the Crown and Lion roughly the same time as Thom was murdered at the Silken Bed."

He tugged on his doublet, a sure sign of angry frustration. "We're on the edge of a Blight, two of the most powerful families in the nation are ready to feud because a young girl trusted the wrong idiot and tried to get some understandable revenge at the same time, and now we've got two Crow Grandmasters getting ready to fight in our country!"

"Welcome to the true game," Nate told the nobleman dryly. "In the end, we're all pieces on a board."

…

Antiva City, Late Parvulis 9:29

It had been a long time since he had permitted his inner darkness to escape the tight bonds of discipline and hard-won experience. Now with the roar of an archdemon in his head, Rennio gloried in the mayhem he wreaked as he methodically dismantled Catina's cells. Blood splattered the walls from slashed throats as the Grandmaster Emeritus winnowed through the chaff and left corpses in his wake. Apprentices, Journeymen, Masters… They all died. Rennio was nothing if not thorough when he decided to purge the world of something.

The body count had reached somewhere in the high nineties over the course of six months before the other Grandmasters of the Antivan Crows appealed to the Grey Wardens to bring the Black Griffin back under control. Catina had vanished, bereft of all but the remnants of one cell and a Journeyman in Ferelden. Rennio had already dispatched an assassin – Taliesen – to deal with Zevran Arainai. He would find the bitch and flay the charred flesh from her bones with a smile.

The Grey Wardens unleashed a dozen senior Wardens, led by Riordan of Jader, to bring the Black Griffin to heel. Four of them died and none were unwounded by the time a mage paralysed Rennio and the other Wardens methodically beat him into a near-pulp. Riordan then neatly bound the Grandmaster in a complicated pattern which even Rennio couldn't escape and informed him that he was being sent to Ferelden to help Duncan mitigate the chaos his little feud with Catina had unleashed… and that he'd better go on his Calling afterwards.

Of all the Wardens Rennio had dealt with over the years, it was Duncan who gave the Grandmaster the most pause. The part-Rivaini former street rat was Warden-Commander of the smallest garrison in Thedas and had survived experiences that made Rennio blanch. He was the only man to ever match the Crow in a sparring match too…

Rennio kept his mouth shut and silently thanked Riordan for reminding him of his priorities. The stability of Ferelden was necessary for his long-term goal of bringing Thedas together; the Couslands and especially his foster daughter Mara were unprotected. Pointless revenge upon Catina would serve nothing but her ultimate goal of a burning world.

And if it served the Wardens' purposes as well, then that was all to the good. But when they diverged…

Rennio hoped Duncan would be dead by then because he wouldn't be up to fighting both Catina's people and the Wardens at once.

By the time he was finished, no one would ever doubt that he was the true Master of the Game. And all of his kin would be protected.


	8. Chapter 7

Note: Thanks for the reviews. Last chapter is meant to be 6, not 7. :P People also forget that Alistair was a dog boy; hence he will have a great affinity for hounds. :)

…

**Chapter 7**

_Politics have no relation to morals._

Niccolo Machiavelli

Denerim, Early Frumentum 9:29

Habren Bryland, daughter of the Arl of South Reach, was a pretty brunette dressed in a fine gown of emerald-green Orlesian silk which matched her large eyes and enhanced the olive skin of her Chasind maternal grandmother. She was just old enough to attend Court at the age of fifteen, considered mature enough to start making friends and alliances in preparation for a future as some noble social lioness married to a man of suitable birth. Several noblemen had already sought out her father for discussions concerning social engagements at which they could get to know the young woman a little better – for themselves or their sons.

Much to the Arl of Denerim's frustration and the King of Ferelden's amusement, Habren had set her big green eyes on him as the most eligible bachelor of the Fereldan nobility. Alistair had to admit he didn't know much about women, but he was pretty sure it was inappropriate behaviour for a half-grown girl (in his eyes) to be showing half her chest and winking at him coyly every time he ran into her. And it hadn't taken Habren long to figure out all the potential ambush sites in the Royal Palace…

The ex-templar might have found Habren's attentions flattering, maybe even amusing in a childish way, except that the girl was petty, spoilt rotten and had gone through a dozen mabari pups in a month only last year. And since the dogs only imprinted once… Alistair recalled his three years as Arl Eamon's dog boy; he remembered the boundless energy and affection of the mabaris bonded to their chosen humans. To have such love wasted because of a girl's petty fancies was to him akin to murder.

As the weather began to cool, he realised it had been a year since he left the Chantry… and almost a year since Mara Cousland had been wed to Thomas Howe and started much of the trouble besetting Fereldan politics. Anora had been repeatedly demanding that agents be sent to Lothering to take Mara's babes; Cailan, for once, had overruled his wife and decreed the twins remain with their mother until they were weaned. Anora was all head and Cailan all heart; if only the two could work in harness instead of Cailan usually delegating all responsibility to the Queen…

Alistair smiled wryly and patted the head of the mabari from the Cousland kennels; she was an adult, rather picky in who she'd imprinted to until Alistair visited the Teyrn of Highever's townhouse a couple weeks ago… She was the mate to Mara's hound Cu, from whom she was separated because Rennio wouldn't abide a dog in his Antivan villa and Bann Ceorlic loathed mabari. Perhaps that was why the Runaway Wife had lost her way – because she had no protectors or support, because she'd been separated from her mabari.

He wasn't sure why he was worried about the big-eyed girl when the rogue was no doubt more than capable of taking care of herself once she'd found an emotional equilibrium. But he'd promised to deliver Cu to her in Lothering on the way to Ostagar, a vow which had gained him the eternal gratitude of the Couslands. They may have had difficulties in dealing with the _dweomer_ girl but her family truly loved her in a way which made Alistair envious.

Barkspawn (he may have been a little intoxicated when he named the dog) growled as Habren came swanning into the throne room once more, followed by a gaggle of giggling, empty-headed marriage-bait. Alistair knew it was unknightly and unchivalrous to think of the ladies in such a manner, but the _interesting_ women of the Court were either married, ineligible for various reasons or uninterested in the Arl of Denerim. Much to his embarrassment, the bounty on his virginity had increased a hundredfold… a fact his worldly-wise womaniser of a brother liked to twit him about almost daily.

"My lord Alistair!" Habren simpered. "We were just talking about you."

_Oh, wonderful,_ the ex-templar thought sarcastically as he tried to find an excuse to leave the throne room. They'd be leaving for Ostagar in a couple weeks… Surely there was something he should be doing…?

"Indeed," giggled one of her friends. "We were talking about how handsome you are and how you're still chaste."

"Waiting for the right woman – that is _so_ romantic," gushed another brainless bit of fluff.

"Uh… ah…" Dammit, Alistair's cheeks were going scarlet beneath his tan. He'd once caved a man's face in with a shield bash and never lost sleep over it, but mention sex and he blushed like a Chantry virgin.

_Oh wait, technically I am…_ Zevran had offered to… relieve him of his 'little problem' but Alistair wanted nothing to do with the elf and his ideas. Not like that, at any rate. Alistair liked women – well, he was pretty sure he did – and he liked strong, independent women who still needed a protector…

Well, maybe not a protector per se. But someone he could count on for support and who would be glad of his own when she needed it.

"Ah, Arl Alistair, there you are," rasped Nathanial Howe, the bastard Hound who'd dragged poor Mara into the Houndmaster's office, as he entered the throne room. "I need to speak with you."

"Lord Nathanial," Habren greeted, her haughty soprano developing a distinct chill. "What a surprise to see you here."

"I don't know why. I am going to Ostagar with most of the other nobles, so it stands to follow I would be in the throne room looking for important people," Nate observed with the heavy sarcasm that turned off most of Denerim's eligible ladies. The Hound had made his dislike of the Court's social whirl quite apparent.

"Oh." It would take a stronger soul than Habren to withstand that pale icy gaze; she wilted before casting a smile at Alistair. "I hope I will see you again, Arl Alistair?"

"Uh, I'll be busy in the next two weeks – maybe when I return from Ostagar," Alistair replied. He hoped the girl was married to some Arl's younger son by the time he came back. He really did. The thought of a lifetime being married to Habren was enough to make him cry.

"Oh." Habren didn't conceal her disappointment as she curtsied and fluttered out, her friends following like a group of brain-dead butterflies. Alistair waited until she was out of sight before heaving a sigh of relief.

"Rule one of dealing with Court ladies: never, ever get caught in a compromising position with them," Nate said with a dry edge to his rasping voice. "Habren would have manoeuvred you into a position where she could claim you'd proposed to her and her friends would have backed her up. And of course if you claimed you hadn't, you'd be calling the daughters of several influential Banns and an Arl liars."

"If the choice was taking templar vows or marrying Habren, lyrium addiction doesn't sound like such a bad fate after all," Alistair responded fervently. "Thanks for saving me."

Nate snickered. "She _is_ rather stupid, isn't she?"

"Yes, she is…" Alistair turned to look at the saturnine archer. "Since I doubt you came here solely to help me, what can I do for you?"

"What's your interest in Mara Howe?" Nate asked bluntly. His blue-grey eyes bored into Alistair's like he was pissed about something. The lessons that the Arl had received during both templar and Guard training suggested that the Hound had a… personal… interest in the girl himself.

"Honestly? It was mostly pity when she was Morna… and still is," Alistair replied honestly. "She got screwed over by your family in a big way and then was manipulated by that little prick Daveth into doing his dirty work… And now she's going to lose her kids because of one stupid mistake brought on by trusting the wrong people."

Nate snorted. "You're not going to be considered Ferelden's finest diplomat, that's for certain," the archer observed dryly. "But… you're right. Of all the people in this mess, it was Mara who got screwed over the most."

"At least one Howe recognises that…" Alistair sighed. "How are Amaranthine's preparations for the war going?"

Nate shrugged. "Father's called his Banns just like everyone else. They'll be marching alongside Highever and Redcliffe's men to Ostagar. More than that, I don't know."

"Can the men of Highever and Amaranthine be trusted together after everything that's happened? Your father doesn't strike me as the forgive and forget kind of guy."

"It's why they'll be marching with Arl Eamon and Bann Loren's forces," Nate answered dryly. Then he frowned. "I wonder how the Whitebridge bannorn is taking everything – technically they still answer to Mara."

"I guess we'll find out when they arrive in Lothering," Alistair pointed out. He looked around at the throne room. "This wasn't part of the plan when I left the Chantry. All I wanted was a nice quiet life with a nice quiet girl…"

"Life _never_ goes to plan," Nate observed with a modicum of sympathy. "So deal with it, Your Highness."

"Nice to know I can count on you for some sympathy," Alistair drawled. "If there's nothing else you need me for, I need to see my own people about the war preparations."

"I'm good," Nate replied as he walked towards the door. "Have a good day, Your Highness."

"You too, Lord Nathanial." Alistair watched the archer leave and frowned slightly. He wasn't entirely sure what Nate Howe's involvement in the Mara situation was, but he was fairly certain there was more to the tale than either the Howes or the Couslands were letting on… And since he was heir to the throne it might be this entire business was somehow going to bite him in the arse.

He resolved to seek out Mara and speak with her on the way to Ostagar – and as Bann of Whitebridge, she'd have to at least appoint someone to lead her bannorn's levies against the darkspawn.

He suddenly grinned. _There_ was a legitimate reason to get her out of the Chantry! Technically Mara hadn't committed treason… and if Anora didn't like it, then the Queen could go get lost in the Blackmarsh.

It would be good to form his own opinion on this girl who'd somehow managed to cause so much trouble, he reflected as he strode towards Sergeant Kylon's office. That she had big sad blue eyes had absolutely nothing to do with his decision; nope, nothing at all…

…

Lothering, Early Frumentum 9:29

"You're supposed to be free of worldly concerns here, you know."

Mara looked up from her correspondence to give the Revered Mother a wry smile. "Unfortunately my bannorn won't let me be," she replied quietly. "Ser Gilmore's leading them here, but…"

"You will be going with them to Ostagar." It was a statement, not a question.

"Of course. I am the Bann of Whitebridge. Whatever mistakes I've made, I can't abandon my bannorn."

"The Queen won't be pleased."

"The Queen will be too busy running the country to care about one more Bann on the field at Ostagar."

"I hope for your sake you're right, Sister Mara." The Revered Mother looked over at the two cradles which held Byron and Moira Howe. The babes had the coarse, unruly black hair and hooked noses of the Howes but the oval faces and blue eyes of the Couslands with the subtle sloe-eyed look of her mother Eleanor's Waking Sea kin. Mara had a feeling that her children would be striking rather than gorgeous…

"They're strong and healthy," Mara said softly. "Maker willing, they'll have the best of both Howe and Cousland in them."

"You could marry Nathanial, you know," the Revered Mother suggested for the umpteenth time. "He's written me weekly asking after you."

"If they hadn't played that trick on me – or at least had the decency to tell me that Thom was sterile and Nate needed to father my children – I might have been able to," Mara replied, fingers tightening around the silver-nibbed peacock feather pen Rennio had sent her for her fourteenth birthday. "But… how can I look at the man who lied to me for a month straight and vow my life to him?"

"I don't know," the Revered Mother, who'd been celibate all her life, admitted with a sigh. "I think he cares for you, Mara, and regrets his actions. It would forestall any feud between your families…"

"Hardly. Rendon Howe will only consider this finished when the last Cousland is dead," Mara pointed out bitterly. "And if I were to take an Antivan approach to things, I would be guilty of slaying my children's grandfather."

The Revered Mother sighed again. "You need to relinquish your worldly concerns and trust in the Maker, Sister Mara. Like it or not your children will be given to Delilah Howe once the lying-in is done – as per your agreement with the Queen."

_If Anora actually lets Delilah raise the Howe heirs when they represent such a powerful bargaining chip, then I'll take Chantry vows for real,_ the girl thought sarcastically. _I bet Her Majesty's planning to 'foster' them… If only she'd fall pregnant or Cailan would put her aside!_

She looked over at her babies and wondered why she couldn't find that core of pragmatism which was so necessary for many a noblewoman. Her parents thought that marrying Nate would solve a lot of problems as did Bann Teagan (and she hadn't been surprised to discover he was the Houndmaster) and Nate himself. But she… couldn't. How could he leave her to Thom like he had if he supposedly cared about her?

_If only he'd been honest with me…_ she thought sadly. It didn't help that she remembered how gentle he was in bed, always ensuring her pleasure as well as his… She remembered when he'd found her, the way he'd rolled over so he wasn't crushing her belly, hands splayed over the small mound…

Mara squeezed her eyes closed, fighting tears. Why hadn't he just been honest with her and her family in the first place? She knew she'd done some very stupid things with dire consequences but so much could have been avoided if Nate had come clean on the wedding night.

"All will be well, Sister Mara," the Revered Mother assured the lay sister, patting her shoulder gently. "Just trust in the Maker."

"I hope you're right," Mara replied before returning to the correspondence which would organise her bannorn for war.

…

Denerim/Lothering, Early-Mid Frumentum 9:29

"Tomorrow we leave for Ostagar.

Duncan's announcement, delivered to the twenty Grey Wardens who sat at five trestle tables in the main hall of their compound, immediately turned Daveth off his meal. He shoved the bowl of vegetable stew aside (tithes had been crap again this year, apparently, so no meat today) and poured himself a big tankard of piss-poor ale. It might have been a summons to war for the other Wardens, but to Daveth it was a call to get the fuck out of Denerim.

The thief had been planning this escape for months. He still maintained caches of silver and gems around Denerim for emergencies – and had created one near the docks with non-descript arms and armour so he could ditch the scout leathers and hop on a ship for somewhere nice and warm – like Antiva.

Duncan's sharp dark eyes travelled across the gathered Wardens. "I know some of you are aware of this, but for the newer recruits: if a Warden assigned to a kingdom suffering a Blight leaves the country without the direct command of the Warden-Commander, it is considered desertion and punished accordingly. And remember – as you can sense the darkspawn and other Wardens… they can also sense you."

_How the fuck did he know?_ Daveth thought as the Warden-Commander sat down and began talking to his Second about the journey tomorrow. The thief eyed his tankard of ale sourly before downing it in one gulp and standing. "Anyone for the Pearl?" he asked as several pairs of eyes looked in his direction.

"You won't have enough time to go there and get back for a decent night's sleep," Duncan said warningly. "We leave three hours before dawn tomorrow."

That was it for the marsh man. "Ya know what, Duncan? Fuck ya an' fuck the Wardens! Ya set me up so ya could conscript me, ya old bastard. So shove the fuckin' Blight up yer fuckin' arse 'cause I ain't goin' nowhere!"

"You _chose _to become a thief, Daveth," the Warden-Commander responded calmly. "Should I have let you hang instead?"

"If ya hadn't dangled that fuckin' fat purse right where I could nick it, ya old c-"

"You are going to Ostagar whether you like it or not," Duncan continued implacably over Daveth's crudity. "Now sit down, shut up, and finish your meal. You'll get precious little decent food on the road or at Ostagar."

"Suck my dick, mate, 'cause I ain't goin' an' ya can't make me."

Duncan did not take up Daveth's suggestion and he did, in fact, make the thief go to Ostagar by simply knocking him out, tying him up, and dumping him in the back of a wagon. Daveth spent most of the trip to Lothering vowing vengeance on the Rivaini son of a whore and the rest of the time wondering how he could lose the Wardens and escape.

Then it hit him: they were going to the Korcari Wilds – his home turf. With so many folks coming and going to Ostagar, he'd find it a cinch to escape and head north to warmer climes. Maybe he'd look for Morna on the way and take her to Antiva with him – sure, she was a bit of a bitch, but he'd been pretty hard on her after she'd been through a lot. And besides, she knew Antiva and was real good in bed… She'd probably dropped the babe by now, so maybe she wouldn't be averse to using other skills to keep everyone fed…

Yup, if Duncan thought he was going to fight a pack of darkspawn for a bunch of bloody noblemen, the Rivaini son of a whore would soon discover differently…

Daveth smirked. He wasn't called Daveth the Deft for nothing!


	9. Chapter 8

Note: Thanks for the reviews! I know canonically the events of the Blight Year happen around 9:30-31, but I see Ostagar as happening around early to mid-autumn and the events of Origins actually taking place over a full year with the Siege of Denerim happening somewhere in late '30 to early '31. So timeline-wise, we are between the Origins and the Ostagar Prelude (for this story, Daveth is the Warden). And yes, all my protagonists can be jerks; Rennio is also beginning the first stages of his Calling, so… yeah. It's not pretty to be in his head at times.

Since Ferelden seems to be a smallish place (two days' ride to Denerim, a day's ride around the lake from Redcliffe to Kinloch Hold, that sort of thing), I will assume its population is also somewhere around two or three hundred thousand (Dark Age to early Middle Ages level). So that means a prosperous, well-populated teynir like Highever or an Arling like Amaranthine can field one or two thousand soldiers each while a smaller bannorn like Rainesferre or Whitebridge would call between one to two hundred able-bodied soldiers.

Rennio is a dual-wielder; Fergus fights with two-handed weapons in my head-canon (just seems to fit him); Bryce and Eleanor are sword-and-shield fighters. And I don't see the Couslands as stupid… Bryce is a bit Lawful Stupid at times and too trusting, but he's no fool. So certain events will be altered somewhat.

…

**Chapter 9**

_Politics is war without bloodshed, while war is politics with bloodshed._

Mao Tse-Tung

Satinalia, Highever 9:29

Despite the crisp chill of the late autumn air, Captain Isabela wandered the decks of _The Siren's Call_ in little more than a thigh-length laced tunic, her jewels and thigh-high leather boots. Most men could appreciate the sight of the curvaceous, dusky-skinned brunette – but not Rennio: she was the wrong gender and she was also a slut. He preferred more discreet and less promiscuous bed-partners…

But bed-partners were the last thing on his mind as the ship sailed into Highever's port. He had spent gold recklessly to travel from Antiva to Ferelden, buying horses and riding them into the ground before purchasing new ones until he came to Isabela in Wycombe. A chest of gold was enough to have the Rivaini woman drop everything and sail for Ferelden at the behest of the Prince of Crows.

And now he came to Highever on the eve of a Blight. By the number of banners displayed in the camp around Castle Cousland, Bryce had called all of his bannorn to answer the King's call. Cailan Theirin wasn't even a pubic hair of his father, but at least the boy was willing to listen to Duncan's predictions.

Rennio's lips tightened as he thought of the Rivaini street rat. Duncan was a practical force of nature when he desired to be and he took his duty very seriously. Riordan had no doubt sent word via Warden mages that the Black Griffin was being dispatched to Ferelden; the Warden-Commander would view any deviation from killing darkspawn as desertion and punish him accordingly. He was fairly certain he could defeat Duncan in combat… but he would not walk away unscathed. And that could not happen.

Maker willing Duncan would show some proactivity in handling the political side of things; Rendon Howe was openly sceptical of the Blight's existence and killing the Arl of Amaranthine would do the Grey Wardens a huge favour. At the moment, Rennio had no hatred for Nate or Delilah Howe – unless they played some part in Mara's sufferings…

He cursed the fact that Riordan had stripped him of his black silk and drakeskin armour and left him only with Warden scout's leathers. Somehow during this crisis he would need to go see Master Wade in Denerim and have something resembling decent assassins' armour made… Thankfully he was allowed to keep his letters of credit to draw gold from the Bank of the Crows…

Isabela neatly guided her ship into the docks despite the crush of merchant vessels departing Highever for less Blight-threatened climes. It was a matter of minutes to be ashore in this land of dog shit, mud and constant rain, the land where he was likely to die. The Maker had a very fucked up sense of humour, truly He did…

It might have been nice to go unrecognised for a few hours longer than he did, but Rennio had barely entered the Laurel Crown, which was what passed for the best inn in Highever, when one of Bryce's senior knights – some red-haired minor noble's son - recognised him. Much to the Antivan Crow's frustration, he came right over and bowed after sending a squire for Fergus. Just what he needed – every soldier and his whore knowing that the Grandmaster Emeritus was in Ferelden. Catina must be laughing, wherever the charred bitch had concealed herself.

"Rennio! Oriana's going to be – Dear Maker in the Fade with Andraste beside him, are those _Grey Warden_ leathers?" Fergus' genial greeting transformed swiftly into a shocked question and Rennio felt another surge of tainted fury towards Riordan. Fucking bitch-born cocksucking son of a Fereldan dog-whore!

"Why don't you speak a little louder – I don't think they heard you at Weisshaupt," Rennio retorted in Antivan as he walked up to his brother-in-law. "I was conscripted and the bastardos sent me here to die."

Complete and utter truth – Riordan had said as much and probably told Duncan the same damned thing. Fucking Fereldans. Why did Oriana have to fall in love with this man and Rennio be unable to deny her wishes?

"Huh, it's really a Blight if the Wardens are willing to piss off the Crows," the heir to Highever observed in the same language, his accent still coarse and raw. He was the most tolerable of the Couslands excepting his foster daughter and young Oren. It was truly a pity Rennio couldn't have kidnapped Fergus, Oriana, Mara and Oren and kept them in Antiva.

"I also came because of Mara," Rennio admitted as he clasped Fergus' forearms in the Fereldan manner instead of an embrace and kiss on each cheek. Fereldans were stupid about many, many things…

Not that he'd want to embrace Fergus like _that_. He preferred older, more sophisticated companions, not Fereldens who smelt of ale and dog.

"You'll be seeing her at Lothering," Fergus assured him. "She was delivered of healthy twins."

"I don't give a shit about her babies," Rennio replied curtly.

Fergus gave him a censuring look. "You should, old man, because she does."

"And you married her to a piece of shit without my permission!" Rennio countered bitterly. "And now she is suffering for it!"

Fergus' brown eyes flashed angrily but all he said was, "I think we should go to Castle Cousland. Father would like to see you, I am sure, and I _know_ Oriana and Oren will be happy you're here."

Rennio muttered several choice phrases involving Bryce Cousland, Riordan of Jader and the archdemon's preference in sexual positions but joined the teyrn-to-be and the senior knight, who turned out to be one Ser Roland Gilmore, on the walk up to Castle Cousland. On the way he discovered that Arl Rendon Howe, Alfstanna of Waking Sea, Bann Loren of Lakewood and the forces of Mara's own bannorn Whitebridge would be departing for Ostagar come the morrow. Ser Gilmore would be commanding his foster daughter's troops until Lothering, where it was expected Mara would take over.

He could scream at the thought of his big-eyed child being in combat. These Fereldans considered open warfare an honourable thing instead of an invitation to death! Fucking fools, Mara, Oriana and Oren should be on the first ship to Antiva!

But he could say nothing. He was here to fight the Blight until Duncan was dead – then he could take care of business. Let some other Warden kill the archdemon; he had more important business to attend to.

The next few hours were awkward as Rennio was forced to sit in the presence of Arl Rendon Howe, quite possibly one of the biggest pieces of scum to ever exist in the Maker's absence, and be _polite_. Comparing him to Maferath would likely to be an insult to Andraste's betrayer… But with the presence of Banns Loren and Alfstanna, there was no way Rennio could arrange a convenient accident…

Everything within Rennio wanted to _burn, taint, maim, corrupt, kill._ He wanted Rendon Howe's blood painting the walls of Castle Cousland; he wanted Catina's head with an apple in her mouth as the centrepiece of the dinner table; he wanted to rip the heart out of Queen Anora for putting the daughter of his heart in the Chantry…

The archdemon called. He wanted to follow its orders and ruin everything that threatened his great work…

When Arl Howe claimed that his troops were late because of bad weather, Rennio took notice. Bryce turned around and ordered Fergus to lead the Highever and Waking Sea men to Ostagar tonight while the Amaranthine, Lakewood and Whitebridge troops would follow in the morning. The heir to Highever agreed readily and arose to make his farewells to his wife and child. A few minutes later, suspicious of Howe, Rennio arose and made claim of needing to use the privy – but instead sought out Fergus.

"The weather from Amaranthine to Highever was mild as a Chantry sister," the Black Griffin told his brother-in-law just inside the Cousland family quarters. "That prick is lying."

Fergus smiled grimly. "Of course he is. That is why we are leaving the Whitebridge soldiers behind; Amaranthine can summon a thousand able-bodied soldiers if need be, but it needs a minimum of two hundred to maintain the Arling. We can field a full two thousand but Father's leaving two hundred here; with the Lakewood and Whitebridge troops supplementing our own, we can match Howe's forces. And the Highever and Whitebridge troops are trained to and equipped with the best: my sister spent much of her dower portion equipping her two hundred troops in steel and veridium where most Banns make do with iron and grey iron."

"Loren is unreliable," Rennio warned.

"True. But his son Dairren is unmarried and Mara is now a widow… He sees a chance to improve his standing," Bryce said from behind Rennio, his Antivan execrable but understandable.

"If you think I will let you marry my Dulcita to another fool, you have something else coming," Rennio promised direly. "Had you thought to consult me, the marriage to Thomas Howe would never have occurred… Or Mara would have been wed to Nathanial, who from my reports is actually a fairly… hmm… _decent_ man towards women."

Bryce's sky-blue eyes glittered with anger. "Thomas was sterile. Rendon ordered Nathanial to pretend to be him at night until Mara was pregnant."

That urge for destruction and mayhem surged through Rennio's veins again and he was scant moments away from wrapping his hands around Bryce Cousland's neck and squeezing until those famous blue eyes bulged and the still-handsome face blackened. But… he couldn't. He only had one dagger and Fergus was fully armoured with a broadsword to hand.

_What am I becoming?_ the elder statesman wondered briefly. But he said aloud, "I shall see that _bastardo_ dead then."

"No, you won't," Bryce replied. "I think Nate truly cares for Mara and regrets his actions; he _didn't_ have to tell Mara what he'd done when he brought her to the Houndmaster, but he did. And a lot of trouble could be avoided if Mara can be persuaded to marry him."

"Were this Antiva, a thousand mercenaries would be descending upon Rendon Howe and destroying his land for this insult," Rennio pointed out grimly. "Or a silent dagger in the night cutting those pricks' throats. Why is he still breathing, Cousland?"

"Because of a little thing called the Blight," Bryce retorted flatly. "We need stability in Ferelden… and Mara isn't exactly pure as the driven snow with her stealing those damned papers, even if she did it on the orders of a little shit masquerading as a Hound. Whatever happens, Rennio, she's _ruined._ Someone like Dairren Loren might be the best she can get – and at least he's a decent, biddable lad."

Rennio throttled his rage until it whimpered and surrendered to curl sullenly in his gut. "Had you left her with me, she would have been married to a perfectly decent trading magnate or even a prince by now. But instead you sell her to a bitch-born fucker of dogs for a few more bannorn."

Bryce's eyes went cold. "You would have used her for your… _great work._ On paper, the match between Mara and Thom Howe seemed good. I should have investigated more into his character, yes. But don't be the pot calling the kettle black, Rennio."

"The unification of Thedas is more important than some Arling on the edge of the world smelling like dog shit!" Rennio hissed. "My Mara should have been a Queen, not a Bann going to war!"

"And some things are more important than your bloody pride!" Bryce retorted. "I'll regret what happened to my daughter for the rest of my fucking life and there will be _nothing_ I can do to make up for it. But Mara is a Cousland and I know she will do her duty. She always has – and thank the Maker she isn't like you, convincing herself that her own selfish desires are actually for the greater good!"

"Bryce, Rennio! Could you two _please_ act like civilised human beings?" Eleanor Cousland demanded in passable Antivan from the door of Fergus' room. "Oren can hear you but he doesn't understand what's going on."

Oriana appeared by the Cousland matriarch's side, teal-blue eyes chastising. "Brother, now is not the time for anger. We all bear responsibility for this mess, from me to Mara; all we can do is try to forgive ourselves and each other." The girl he remembered, light-footed and lovely, was replaced by a beautiful mother with slightly sorrowful eyes.

"You take their side, Oriana?" Rennio asked, his voice sharp.

"I take the side of one who knows her brother, mate-father, husband and mate-sister are going to war against monsters out of legend," Oriana replied gently, chastisingly. "Save your anger for the darkspawn, not the rest of us."

"Fuck the darkspawn," Rennio snarled.

"Uncle Rennio, are you really a Warden?" Oren's high young voice cut through the tension like a hot knife through butter. "Where's your griffin?"

"Dead. Dead and gone with the rest of them," Rennio replied bitterly… and then found himself sprawled on the green rug, seeing stars and his jaw aching in a manner that promised bruising.

When his gaze cleared, he saw Fergus sucking on bloodied, bruised knuckles. "I don't know what the fuck your problem is," the Teyrn-to-be said in a low, soft voice that spoke of death and dark things, "but if you ever speak like that in the presence of _my_ family again, I will make you dead as the griffins. Is that clear, Rennio?"

His brown eyes were cold and deep as a Fereldan bog, the primal fury of the Alamarri warrior wanting to protect kin and hearth lurking beneath his usually genial exterior now revealed in force. Rennio had thought him once a slightly more intelligent version of his too-honourable father… but this man was very dark, very dangerous and would keep his word.

"As Rialto glass," Rennio replied as he struggled to his feet, tasting blood and a cracked tooth.

"Good." Fergus turned to Oriana. "Don't worry, my love. Maker willing, I'll see you soon… Keep that crossbow close tonight, love – I don't think a certain Arl's stupid enough to do something… but it's best to make sure, yes?"

"Of course, my heart," Oriana replied, kissing him lovingly. For a moment Rennio's heart tightened with regret that he had never known such love before he quashed the feeling and focused on the need to achieve his great work.

"I… apologise for my words," he said through gritted teeth, forcing the need to rage and destroy. "I am… old. And this Blight has us all on edge."

Bryce looked at him as if seeing the Warden scout leathers for the first time. "I… understand," he said – far too ready to forgive and forget, the fool man. "You were right, in part, about Mara. We should have spoken to you. I am sorry for that, Rennio."

"It is well…" Rennio managed a smile despite his split lip. "I will go with you on the morrow, I think. These old bones need a rest."

"Rest well, Rennio," Oriana said soothingly. "I shall see you at breakfast in the morning."

"And you, my sister."

He went to bed – and on his awakening, nothing would ever be the same.

…

Satinalia, Lothering 9:29

Alistair watched her mend a pile of laundry, movements slow and sure as if she were trying to relearn how her body worked. She wore the soft linen robes of a Chantry sister, the high-necked crimson underrobes with their golden sunburst design cinched tightly with a black stomacher beneath a heavier robe of black wool with simple embroidery and long, three-fingered gloves keeping her warm against the chill. He recalled the saffron and scarlet sashes which always kept the over-robe closed but didn't recall it making a woman's waist seem so tiny…

Her hair was no longer the dull, dyed-brown hue it had been in Denerim, returned to its natural fair hue, and her oval face was both better fed and more careworn than it had once been. But the woad-blue tattoo, said to be the gift of a Chasind shaman for a favour rendered, and those huge eyes were the same – if half-closed from concentration. He recalled that about _dweomer_ servants in the Chantry: they focused totally on what they were doing when they did it, so they wouldn't get distracted.

The Arl of Denerim looked down at the dog by his side, the squat, muscular creature tensing and whining as he smelt his human near. But Cu wasn't stupid; he recalled the easily startled little girl he'd imprinted upon and he trusted Barkspawn's human to let him know when the right time to approach was.

Her hair fell into a loose ponytail over one shoulder as she sat beneath a tree losing the last few scarlet leaves before the snows of Firstfall came. Alistair realised that it was her seventeenth birthday today; she'd receive a gift she'd never forget.

He made a gesture to Cu – the hound crouched to his belly and crawled stealthily over to his human, laying down expectantly for her to notice him with a soft huff. Mara, rogue-trained, noticed him quicker than Alistair expected – that momentary tenseness, hand twitching towards what had to be a hidden knife, blue eyes narrowing – but then relaxed. Cu whined at her and hands which had been so steady before suddenly trembled as she carefully set the basket in her lap and the needle she held aside.

"Cu," she breathed, that Antivan drawl tinged with the Lothering lilt he recalled from her time as Morna soft and exotic as a breeze from over the Waking Sea. Alistair suddenly felt like he was intruding on a private moment and thought it might be a good idea to leave… But he couldn't. That unguarded expression of joy and eased loneliness was something he couldn't walk away from.

She rubbed the mabari's back as he panted happily, ecstatic now his human had been returned to him. But as she patted her mabari, those huge eyes rose to meet Alistair's in the first full-on gaze they'd ever shared. Maker's breath, but her eyes were… something else. With her overlarge gaze and too-wide mouth, Mara would never be considered an example of classic beauty, but those orbs were clear and pale as a fine winter's sky. No doubt when she was Tranquil they would be cold and flat, but when a _dweomer_ felt – they felt deeply. And the sheer gratitude and joy and relief in those eyes brought him to his knees on the cold earth of the Chantry garden to make them equals.

"Thank you," she replied simply. "Whoever you are, whoever sent you, I am grateful for this."

"You're welcome," Alistair replied softly. He remembered when Barkspawn needed to go see the kennel master for an illness and he couldn't see her. The sheer relief of seeing his mabari running up to him had been transcendent. To have been separated from a mabari for nearly ten years…? Horrible.

"I… know you. From somewhere." Her brow creased as she tried to puzzle out his identity and he let her. He didn't know how she'd react when she realised that he was the Guard who'd arrested Daveth. "You are… Kylon's lad. The Guardsman who watched me sometimes in the marketplace. The friend to that Crow of Catina Seforzina's."

She tilted her head expectantly, much like Cu when he wanted something, as she waited for his name. He didn't keep her waiting too long. "I'm Alistair," he replied gently, not offering a hand as was customary because he knew _dweomer_ people disliked having their personal space invaded. "I… wouldn't exactly call Zevran my friend. We just sort of put up with each other because we were ordered to."

"Alistairio…" He decided he didn't mind the Antivan version of his name when she said it. "You are bastard brother to King Cailan and now Arl of Denerim. Templar-trained but refused your vows."

"Yeah," Alistair admitted with a wry smile. "Me and the Chantry… just didn't agree."

Mara nodded, lips twitching in a quick rueful smile. "Yes, not all of us find peace herein…" Then those blue eyes settled on him and were suddenly infinitely cold, her face blank as a marble statue's. "Has Queen Anora sent you to take my babies then?"

Alistair blinked… then winced as he recalled Anora's demands to have the babes brought to Denerim once Mara's lying-in was complete. "Maker's breath, no! Cailan's ordered you are to have them until they are weaned, my Lady."

"That is… more than I expected. More, perhaps, than I deserve," Mara observed, feeling and warmth creeping back into her soft, husky contralto. "Thank you, Arl Alistairio… I am further in your debt."

"Don't speak of debts, my Lady," he replied softly. "You got screwed over by any number of people. I told your parents I would return Cu to you on the way to Ostagar because it was about damned time somebody did you a kindness."

"You are a good man. Don't let the Game of Princes destroy that in you," she told him gently. "Thank you."

Then she rose slowly, going to pick up her mending. "I had hoped for a few more weeks before travelling to Ostagar, but if the King's forces are here it follows the Whitebridge troops will not be long behind. It is time Sister Mara is laid to rest and Bann Mara prepare for war."

Alistair beat her to getting the basket of clothing; Cu barked in approval, tail wagging happily. "Are you up to it? Physically, I mean – it's been…?"

"Six weeks since the birth," Mara said calmly. "I am as healed as I can be. I must go, Arl Alistairio – I have failed in many duties, but I was chosen to be Bann of Whitebridge because the bannorn believes I can protect them. It is our job to be warriors and defenders. I cannot fail my bannorn by not fighting with them."

"Sounds like you've been doing a lot of thinking," Alistair finally said. He kept hold of the basket, making her look askance at him.

"There has been much time for it, especially when my pregnancy meant I could not do the heavier chores," Mara confirmed as she led the way to a gnarled dead rosebush that – miraculously – had a single red rose blooming on it and a sister with red hair exclaiming over it. She looked vaguely like Loony Lily or whatever the templar initiates had called the crazy Orlesian sister who claimed to have visions from the Maker.

"Leliana," she said – and yup, it _was_ Loony Leliana.

"Oh Mara, my vision was real! This rose – it says the Maker has not abandoned the world, that He still loves us," the Orlesian babbled, clutching at the surprised Mara. "I told you, the Revered Mother must believe me now!"

Alistair tried not to roll his eyes as Mara gently disentangled the 'prophet'. "Please… You know I hate sudden touches, Sister Leliana!"

"I'm sorry," Leliana immediately said, looking contrite. The she caught sight of Alistair and dimpled. "Oh, who is this?"

"Arl Alistair of Denerim," he replied, bowing as best he could with a basket of laundry in his arms.

"Ooooh…" Leliana smiled, the 'prophet' lost in the Orlesian coquette she surely had been once. "Don't lose this one, Mara. He looks sweet and kind and is already house-trained."

"Sweet Mother of the Bride of the Maker!" Mara hissed, cheeks scarlet with embarrassment. "I have been a widow for less than a year and a day and already you matchmake!"

"Why not? Neither you nor I are sworn to celibacy," Leliana responded with a saucy toss of her red hair. "And he is an Arl and you a Teyrn's daughter. It is a good match."

"Please, Maker, please take me to Your Light now," Mara muttered, looking utterly mortified. Alistair had to admit that the crimson blush on her cheeks was quite adorable.

But he had to rescue her from Loony Leliana. "Please forgive us, but Bann Mara and I must go," he told the Orlesian woman. "No doubt you know the army is on its way to Ostagar. Preparations need to be made so we can join our troops."

Leliana's blue eyes flashed with fury. "You would make a new mother go to war!"

"My duty as a Cousland and as a Bann compels me," Mara replied before Alistair could say anything. "Which is why I have come to you."

"What of your babes?" Leliana asked. "Will they be sent to Denerim as you feared?"

"Not until they have weaned. The Revered Mother has arranged for a wet nurse." Mara's voice was brave but her big eyes flickered with fear briefly. "I… must ask you, friend to friend, student to teacher, to protect my children where I cannot."

"I have left that life behind me," Leliana began, then looked at Alistair, who felt _really_ awkward and confused. "And you can remain to-"

"I _cannot._ I am Fereldan and I must fight the darkspawn because the King has called the Bannorn to Ostagar," Mara answered, tears shining in her eyes. "You and I… we know how vicious the Game is. It will make pieces of my children before they should be on the board. _Please,_ Leliana. You are the only one I can trust."

Alistair suddenly realised that Leliana had to be one of the infamous Orlesian bards; it explained her musical accent and lilting voice. Perhaps some past trauma had unhinged her mind… He wanted to… He didn't know what he wanted to do. It seemed unfair that this poor big-eyed girl had to rely on Loony Leliana to protect her children because of duty.

"I… will," Leliana finally agreed. "But I must ask something in return."

"I will see Marjolaine nailed to a wall for what she has done to you," Mara promised fervently. She produced a slim curved dagger from somewhere in her robes and kissed it. "I swear upon the blade."

Something eased in Leliana's expression. "I will protect your children," she said gently. "They will be safe with me."

"Thank you." Mara hugged her fellow lay sister before putting the blade back and looking towards Alistair, who'd just stood there, big, dumb and stupid. "I… would thank you not to mention this, Arl Alistair."

"Are you intending to defy the Queen's orders and keep your children from the Howes?" he asked softly, having seen a flash of the dangerous rogue Mara would mature into. Whoever this Marjolaine was, he pitied her. Kind of. In an abstract, distant 'nobody deserves to have a bard-Crow-rogue-person with a grudge after them' kind of way.

"I am not. Maker willing the archdemon will show itself at Ostagar, I will survive, and I can deliver my children to Delilah Howe myself," Mara responded quietly. "But I will not see my children gone until they are weaned, as the King commanded."

"Whereas the Queen wants them in Denerim… _now._" Technically Alistair supposed he should consider this treason, but it wasn't because Cailan's commands took precedence. "I won't say anything, Lady Cousland."

"I am in your debt thrice over," she said, bowing her head.

"No, you aren't. Cailan's orders take precedence over Anora's… and truth to tell, that bitch tried to hire an assassin because I chose to leave the Chantry. So seeing her get a taste of her own medicine's fine by me."

Leliana smiled brightly. "Keep this one, Mara!"

Mara's cheeks went bright red again and remained that way as she hurried into the Chantry to inform the Revered Mother of her coming departure and to say farewell to her babies. He stayed silent in the background as she fed the black-haired, hook-nosed babies that looked so much like that Nathanial bastard it was scary, something soft and warm in her that made his heart ache for the family he'd never known.

He knew that he should report to his brother or check on his troops or… something… but he stayed, thinking of the anguish that this girl had been through. He thought of Loony Leliana, something broken in her by someone called Marjolaine. He thought of Anora, so damned certain that being ruthless was the right bloody way. He thought of Zevran, honed into a living weapon by someone called Catina Seforzina that Mara knew of and feared. He thought of Nate Howe, a ruthless son of a bitch with an altruistic streak, a man who played something called 'the murder game'. He thought of Rendon Howe, a snake if ever one was made human. He thought of Kylon, Yarin and Olin, forced to turn their eyes from corruption because it was the only way they could survive. He thought of the Couslands, good people stuck in a game they would have trouble surviving, let alone winning.

He thought of babies being pawns in the Game of Princes – what some people called politics and he called playing dirty – and of a mother forging herself into a weapon to protect them. Using the same tools as her enemies to try and save that she loved. Becoming cold and hard, being Tranquil – she'd become that, briefly, when she thought he was here to take her children away – a big-eyed _dweomer_ girl who loved her babies and her hound and should have had a good husband instead of a sadistic bastard like Thom Howe was reputed to be…

_I won't let that happen,_ he vowed as he watched her vanish into the sisters' barracks to change into her armour. _I won't let her become cold and hard. I can't._

He heard a whine and looked down at Cu and Barkspawn. The mabari duo looked at him, heads tilted in that wise hound way, and he smiled.

"We'll return for her puppies, I promise," he said softly. "And we'll make sure she's going to be okay."

Cu barked approvingly._ You would make a good mate for my two-legs._

"Bit more complicated than that, old boy," Alistair said, looking over at the closed door which hid Mara. "Quite a bit more complicated than you think."


	10. Chapter 9

Note: Thanks for the reviews! Gods, I hope I'm getting the calendar right… :P Much liberty will be taken with companions to suit the story; please don't assume that canon companions will be companions. :) Mara's armour, for ease of reference, is the Battlemaiden Armour from the Phoenix Armory mod from Dragon Age Nexus… Also going massively (even more so) AU with this story; tell me what you think.

…

**Chapter 9**

_Just because you do not take an interest in politics doesn't mean politics won't take an interest in you._

Pericles

Lothering, 1st Day of Umbralis 9:30

What was it about Alistair that made her trust him so?

Mara watched the Arl of Denerim speak soberly with Bann Teagan, who'd just arrived with the Rainesferre contingent, and Bann Ceorlic's steward – as always, the crotchety old bastard was remaining in Denerim for 'reasons of his wife's health'. The Bann of Whitebridge knew it was because he was a coward who got nervous if a crowd jostled him…

But that was beside the point. Why did she trust this tall, broad-shouldered royal bastard with the guileless golden-brown eyes and open expression? He was a man who watched her with a man's eyes but acted with all the honesty of a boy. Maybe it was his Chantry upbringing. She didn't know… and that scared her.

He was friends with Zevran, a Journeyman Crow of Catina Seforzina's, who had somehow inveigled his way into the royal entourage without so much as a by-your-leave. He'd marched into a throne room and confronted Anora about a contract on his life. He'd made good on his promise to her parents to return Cu to her and vowed to keep her request for Leliana to guard her children until she returned from Ostagar secret because he didn't like the Queen. He'd picked up her laundry automatically and didn't ask for any favours. His eyes had yearned for… _something_… when she'd fed Byron and Moira for what was likely the last time.

Why did she trust this man when so many males not of her family had done wrong by her? Why _him_?

After over a year in nothing but dresses and robes and then giving birth to twins, Mara's articulated dragonbone and drakeskin plate, designed especially for a rogue, had to be altered to accommodate her curvier, softer figure. And even then with the extra lacing it felt too damned tight… She needed to get back into shape as the road to Ostagar loomed before her.

The Whitebridge troops were due in a few days and Mara wondered what they would think of her, their Bann, with such notoriety attached to her. She was a piss-poor representative for them in the Landsmeet –deceived or not, her stealing those papers, giving them to a stranger who sold them, and then information critical to Ferelden's security popping up for sale in the black markets… Who could, or would, trust _her_?

Alistair did, but if it hadn't been for the occasional sharpness of his amber-hazel eyes, she'd think him a right royal fool like Cailan was prone to be.

No one had objected to her carrying weapons in the presence of the King, thank the Maker. Mara supposed she had to face Cailan sooner or later and endure the tongue-lashing of Teyrn Loghain… But she wanted to deal with it much, much later. Preferably after she had proven herself in war as somewhat reliable.

It felt good to have Cu by her side again. Rennio couldn't abide dogs and neither could Bann Ceorlic's wife, so she had gone without the presence of her mabari for more years than any Fereldan should. At least something of hers remained to her…

She thought of Moira and Byron left with the trustworthy but slightly cracked Leliana. In return for taking her son Carver on as a soldier, Leandra Hawke had agreed to assist the Orlesian lay sister with the care of the babies. Mara suspected her daughter Bethany was an apostate… but she didn't judge. The Hawke girl and Morrigan had never summoned demons in her presence and so she would give them the benefit of the doubt.

She walked through the crowd towards Bann Teagan and Alistair, ignoring the looks her too-curvy frame and too-tight blue and white armour got from the soldiers. If another man never touched her again, it would be far too soon for her liking.

It took a second for Bann Teagan – the Houndmaster, Ferelden's domestic spymaster – to recognise Mara in plate with several pounds packed on and weapons to hand. Then he bowed with exquisite courtier's grace, taking the gauntleted hand she'd extended in greeting and kissed it politely. "Bann Mara," he greeted with a surprised smile. "It is a pleasure to see you well."

"And you, Bann Teagan," she replied with a cross-armed military bow once her hand was released. The courtesies given to a noblewoman were too uncomfortable for her but she said nothing as this man had been an advocate of hers.

Alistair turned to her, eyes widening as he noticed the armour her father had commissioned for her upon her marriage and assuming the title of Bann. It was intricate dragonbone and drakeskin plate-and-chain, designed for a lithe young rogue instead of the fat mother she was now… Swathes of chainmail and extra lacing had allowed her to still fit into it… But she realised that it would show her figure more than she was comfortable with.

_Shit_, she thought as Alistair remembered to kiss her hand like a gentleman. But those amber eyes were still locked on her. That's all she needed, someone _else_ staring at her.

Much to her horror, Nathanial came up… and those pale eyes practically burned. And her memory decided to kick in with a recollection of the time he'd pressed her against the wall of the bedroom one night and showed her what a talented rogue could do with his tongue until she practically screamed.

_Maker's breath, it's going to be a long trip to Ostagar,_ she thought with a sigh as she went to greet the father of her children.

…

Nate was torn between wanting to shake Mara for obviously intending to go to Ostagar and take her back to his tent, get her out of that armour and show her how happy he was to see her. And judging by the expression on her face, she was torn between being pissed off and remembering how good they'd been in bed together.

When he saw the Bastard Prince eyeing her arse in the indiscreet way only an adolescent or a Chantry boy could manage, he firmly reminded himself that killing a member of Ferelden's royal family was treason. Mara was damaged goods now and few men would have her…

…_Nate_ would, but that was because he should have gotten her in the first place. Damn his father and his paranoia… and the archer's own stupidity in not confessing to Mara sooner what was going on.

But she was coming over, leaving the Chantry boy behind, and Nate cracked a smile. Maybe there was hope. Maybe the time in the Chantry had given her time to think about this rationally-

An armoured knee to his crown jewels left his vision white and him bending over, clutching his groin with a high-pitched squeak.

"You know, for some reason I think Bann Mara's still a bit pissed with him," Alistair drawled.

"You are very much correct, Arl Alistairio," Mara agreed crisply.

_Alistairio? When that fucking elf calls him that he gets all huffy and bitchy,_ Nate thought dimly through a haze of pain. It appeared that Mara had been spending her time in the Chantry learning more than how to sing the Chant correctly.

"Ah, Bann Mara, I understand you are under considerable pressure, but I would like to remind you that violence between the Couslands and the Howes is forbidden," Teagan said mildly.

"But I am now a Howe, so therefore I have broken no decree of the King's," she responded tartly.

"Can't argue with that," Cailan agreed dryly. "Maker's hairy balls, Bann Mara, remind me to keep on your good side!"

The pain had ebbed enough for Nate to straighten and open his eyes just in time to see Mara offer a cross-armed bow to the King. "Your Majesty, I am honoured to be in your presence," she said formally.

"Given your expert use of the Orlesian nutcracker, I think I'm a bit scared to be in _your_ presence," Cailan said with a wry grin. "I take it you didn't have that particular skill during your marriage to Thom?"

"If I had, my marriage would have ended _very_ differently," the big-eyed girl admitted. "I thank you, Majesty, for the kindness you showed in letting me keep my children until they are weaned."

"Yet you are dressed for war and intend to go to Ostagar," Teyrn Loghain observed in his harsh, grating voice.

"The King has called the Bannorn and as Bann of Whitebridge I go," Mara replied, back stiffening at the implied criticism. "My people expect it of me."

"I take it your troops will arrive with Highever, Amaranthine, Waking Sea, Lakewood and Redcliffe's men?" Cailan asked.

"As my interim commander Ser Roland Gilmore informed me, yes," Mara replied. "They will be here in a few days, as I understand."

Even with the throbbing aftermath of Mara's attack making his balls clench in pain, Nate didn't miss the significant glance that the King and the Teyrn of Gwaren shared. "You two know something," he rasped.

Cailan nodded, losing the wry expression. "Aye, Arl Nathanial."

Nate managed to forget about his testicles as the significance of the King's announcement sank in. Everyone in earshot fell silent as the fair-haired warrior in his gilded dragonbone massive plate looked over the gathered nobility grimly. "Somebody managed to get into Highever's kitchens and poison the welcoming cup Teyrn Bryce Cousland and Arl Rendon Howe shared with slow-acting venom. Cousland's in a coma and Howe didn't survive."

Nate tried to find words but he couldn't. The thing he'd secretly most longed for had come to pass… but now it had, he found himself speechless, unable to think or act. _By the Maker…_

He risked a glance at Mara; her face was whiter than snow but her huge blue gaze was steady. "My first thought would be it was an agent of Catina Seforzina's," she said slowly. "One stroke, she damages Ferelden's political stability whilst keeping strong heirs capable of putting hostility aside during a Blight in place."

"Or it could be the Orlesians with much the same intent," Zevran Arainai observed dryly from his place in the shadows of a tent. "Forgive me, my lady, but I am the highest-ranked of _La Dolorosa's_ Crows in this part of the world – and I was told to keep Ferelden stable because _no one_ wishes to see the Blight extend beyond Ostagar."

Mara's eyes narrowed as she looked upon the elf. "But she would let the world burn if it meant she could destroy Rennio's great work, Journeyman."

"As he would if it meant he could destroy my mistress," Zevran countered. "When the Sorrowful One and the Prince of Crows play the Game, we are all pieces on their board."

"That… is true," Mara admitted grudgingly before looking at Nathanial. "I am… sorry for any grief you may be feeling, Nathanial."

His lips managed to curve in a bitter smile. "The only thing I'm grieving is the fact I lost the chance to tell him what a prick he was," the archer confessed.

"Fergus sent a messenger to tell us that the troops would be a day or two late," Cailan continued. "He also added that 'Regardless of whatever happened between him and Mara, he holds no quarrel with Nathanial Howe if the new Arl of Amaranthine doesn't with him'."

"I don't have a quarrel with the Couslands," Nate confirmed, looking around for somewhere to sit because he wasn't too sure if his legs could hold him up for much longer. "In fact, if Mara would-"

"No." Mara's voice was soft but firm. "Do not go there on the heels of what happened with my father being ill. There is only so much I can bear at the moment, Nathanial."

"Am I the only one confused here as to what's going on?" Cailan asked of the air.

"My husband was sterile so his brother played stud in my bed… Only he didn't tell me and left me believing I had done something wrong to make Thom be cruel to me once I was pregnant," Mara replied flatly before Nate could gather himself enough to speak.

For once, the King was left speechless as Teagan nodded confirmation, Loghain frowned even more, Warden-Commander Duncan coughed awkwardly somewhere in the background, Zevran looked idly amused and Alistair looked ready to pummel something… Probably Nate by the way those golden eyes glared in his direction.

"…The last time I came across something this convoluted, it was in an Orlesian romance," the King finally observed as Loghain made a strangled noise at the thought of a Theirin reading anything _Orlesian._ "If nothing else, Bann Mara, your honesty is commendable – if brutal."

The King sighed. "Look, we need to fight the darkspawn and both Fergus and Nate are honourable enough not to squabble when a third party has obviously stirred the pot. We can sort this mess out after Ostagar. I offer my condolences for your father, Arl Nathanial, and pray for the recovery of yours, Bann Mara."

Mara bowed and murmured a thank you as Nate managed a nod. The King gestured to Loghain and Warden-Commander Duncan before the trio vanished somewhere in the crowd to no doubt discuss strategy (or in their case, Cailan yawn while Duncan and Loghain discussed strategy).

"Sweet Mother of the Bride of the Maker," Mara cursed under her breath. "I… do not know what to say."

"Then don't say anything," Alistair advised gently. "Do you need anything? Or any help at all? I've got too much staff and not enough work for them – or so my commander is saying."

"What I need is a good stiff drink of Antivan brandy," Mara replied fervently. "But there is none to be had south of Redcliffe."

"Ah… I have a bottle," Zevran offered. "You may have as much as you like."

When Mara bestowed a sceptical look on the Antivan Crow, the elf smirked. "My mistress' quarrel is with your foster father, Bann Mara, not with you. In fact, she has also ordered me to give you any help you may need."

"Why?" Mara's question was cold and clipped.

"Because she too was a woman wronged," Zevran replied quietly.

Mara took a deep, shaky breath. "I… thank you. But I will not be a tool to her – or anyone's – hand."

"As you wish. The offer will remain open." The Crow looked at Nathanial opaquely. "You look just like your brother," he said cryptically before disappearing into the crowd, leaving the new Arl gawping at him.

"That son of an elven bitch," Nate swore. "I'll fucking murder him!"

"Okay, I'm confused," Alistair said as he looked between Nate and Mara.

"He just told us that he made me a widow," the Bann of Whitebridge explained, her blue eyes narrowed. Then she tugged on her loose blonde ponytail. "Do you think he'd accept a token of gratitude?"

"Don't offer to show Zev how grateful you are," Alistair advised dryly. "The bastard's a sexual pervert of the highest order and he can make you blush with a glance. I know, he likes to do it to me."

Much to Nate's shock, Mara managed a weak chuckle. "It is the Antivan manner," she told the Arl of Denerim. "I left Antiva before I could learn it properly."

"I don't give a fuck what the elf is, he's going to die," Nate vowed as he managed to steady himself. "Mara, he just admitted that he murdered a member of Ferelden's nobility! He can't be allowed to get away with it."

Mara gave him a blank look. "You should thank him too, Nate. If not for him, your father would have disowned you or given you to the Wardens or seen you dead by now. Instead you are Arl of Amaranthine."

"Besides, a cryptic reference isn't a confession," Alistair added. "He could have just met or seen your brother, Nathanial."

The archer stared at the ex-templar. "So you'd believe an Antivan Crow over a noble of Ferelden? What is he, your fuck-buddy or something?"

Alistair's smile was sharp. "It's a sad world, Howe, when a professional assassin's more honest than a Hound of the King. Just an observation, of course."

Then the Arl of Denerim turned to Mara, who was watching with a strange expression on her face. "I have some West Hill brandy, Bann Mara. I know it's not as nice as an Antivan one, but it's got a sweet taste to it – Bann Franderal distils it with blackcurrant and honeysuckle notes. Would that help any?"

Nate was forced to remind himself – again – of the punishments for treason as Mara nodded and smiled shakily. "Please, Arl Alistairio. I would welcome it," she replied just before the royal bastard led her off. The mother of his children cast him one last glance of mixed emotions just before she disappeared.

This should have been the best day of his life. But somehow, all Nate could taste was ashes and bile.


	11. Chapter 10

Note: Thanks for the reviews. I've still got an even divide for Team Nate and Team Alistair so I'd really appreciate a third opinion, please? If someone suggests Team Daveth or Team Teagan I will have to kill them. :) I also figure Jory deserves a bit of revenge on Daveth… and a bit of potty humour. I'm sorry, I'm terrible at times.

…

**Chapter 10**

Ostagar, 7th Umbralis 9:30

Daveth was taking a mouthful of rather good Orlesian wine he'd won in a dicing game when he saw absolutely the last person he expected in both armour and at Ostagar waltz into the King's camp with a giant mabari and the Chantry boy-turned-Arl Alistair in tow. On the upside, Morna had a) managed to drop the baby and b) actually develop something that looked like a proper set of tits. On the downside, the sight of her made him splutter and choke on his wine.

"By the Maker and His Bride, that's my Lady Cousland!" blurted out Ser Jory, one of Duncan's new recruits, as he looked up from polishing his greatsword.

"Trust me, mate, she's no lady in the sack," Daveth replied with a smirk.

"You would dare impugn the honour and virtue of a lady!" Jory said loudly. He really was a moron but a capable fighter so Duncan put up with him. Daveth thought he was a pretentious dick and hoped the Joining would kill him to stop the Grey Wardens from becoming even stupider than what they already were.

Several people looked over and Daveth smirked again. "No lady can do what she can with her mouth, ser knight."

"You are no gentleman, Warden Daveth!" Jory told the cutpurse in an outraged tone.

"No, an' thank the Maker for that," Daveth retorted as he went back to enjoying his bottle of wine. So Morna was really a Cousland; whatever, she was still a good lay and he saw no reason to lie about it.

"He's also a thief and a liar, but I _was_ going to respect his status as a Grey Warden and not point out his deficiencies," Morna observed sweetly as she came closer. "But I suppose the Chant of Light tells us to be honest, yes?"

Daveth smiled at the woman. "G'day Morna. Got tired of the Chantry, did we?"

"Hello, Daveth. I see the darkspawn haven't obliged me by killing you," Alistair answered before the woman in her blue-and-white plate could. "And her correct title is Bann Mara Howe of Whitebridge."

"Mara… as in…?" Daveth lowered the bottle of wine to stare at the fair-haired woman. "You fuckin' lied ta me!"

"This from the man who claimed to be a Hound of the King," Mara replied acidly.

"That's different!"

"You falsely claimed to be an agent of the Crown? Is there no end to your depravities, Daveth?" Jory asked, utterly aghast. "You are unworthy to be a member of the Grey Wardens!"

"I suggested they hang him, but Warden-Commander Duncan wouldn't listen to me," Alistair observed dryly.

"Nobody asked for your fuckin' opinion," Daveth told the Arl. "Besides, I remember when ya was fresh outta the Chantry an' learnt a valuable life lesson by me stealin' your cloak an' pack – an' ya repaid me by takin' everythin' I owned an' givin' it ta poor people."

"I don't know what's more disturbing," Alistair told Mara dryly. "That he came up with that or that he truly believes it."

"Daveth makes sense in a strange, roundabout sort of way, Arl Alistairio, if you accept that the world is full of people who look out only for themselves before everyone else," the blonde woman replied sadly.

_Huh, she ain't as dumb as I thought,_ Daveth thought as he took a swig of wine.

"Well, I refuse to accept that and I won't let you believe it either," Alistair said fiercely, golden eyes blazing with… Daveth didn't know what it was so he settled for passion.

"Welp, Chantry boy, this is all very romantic but lemme give ya some advice: she's really ticklish on the legs. An' half the time she's got a headache," Daveth advised cheerfully. "An' the other half she expects ya ta make _her_ happy before _ya_ get ta be happy."

"My lord, my lady, I beg apologies for this miscreant," Jory said once he'd managed to find his voice. "He's scum of the lowest form and he dishonours our Order by existing."

"That's not what ya said last night," Daveth smirked at the knight, hoping to rattle him. Why were people so offended by honesty?

He got a reaction but not the one he expected or wanted: a greatsword pommel to the jaw neatly knocked him out.

…

"You know, that Ser Jory looks a bit stuffy, but I'm impressed with his handling of Daveth," Alistair observed calmly as the pudgy-faced knight calmly sat back down and returned to polishing his sword after knocking the smartarse thief out.

Cu, bless his canine heart, wandered over and added insult to injury by 'marking territory' on the unconscious man, which made Mara give a shocked but delighted giggle. Alistair knew he liked the mabari for some reason.

"…I really don't want to know," Duncan, Ferelden's Commander of the Grey, said plaintively as he emerged from his small tent.

"He embarrassed our Order and he insulted me, Arl Alistair and Bann Mara," Jory replied.

"In talking about the sex life, it was true," Mara pointed out with a sigh. "I was trying to escape my abusive husband and I thought he was a Hound."

"The story's a bit more complicated than that," Alistair assured the knight. "But thank you. Daveth is a pain in the arse and it's a pleasure to see him knocked senseless because of his mouth."

Jory's mouth quirked to one side as Duncan sighed aggrievedly. "Just make sure he's clean and awake for tonight," the Warden-Commander ordered the knight curtly. Then he turned to Mara. "Bann Mara, have you heard anything from your foster father Rennio?"

The little blonde blinked. "Not recently… Why do you ask?"

"Because he's a senior Grey Warden and he's been dispatched to help me out with the Blight," Duncan answered, rubbing his beaky nose with another sigh. "He's due with your troops. When he arrives, please send him to me?"

"Of course," Mara said weakly, eyes absolutely huge and blank with shock.

Duncan nodded and gave Alistair a smile. "You are your parents' son," the half-Rivaini observed cryptically before returning to his tent.

"That was strange," Alistair finally managed to say. Why had the Warden-Commander said such a thing?

"You don't say," Mara agreed softly. "Maker's breath, what a day…"

Alistair automatically wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders; much to his surprise and delight, she froze only for a second before relaxing into the hug. Her blue gaze, when it rose to meet his amber one, was confused but trusting. He smiled down at her and she smiled back, awkwardly, shyly.

"Why are you being so kind to me?" she asked softly. "There is no profit to it and in fact you may do yourself political harm by being friends with me."

"What is it about you people and politics being a driving force in everything you do?" he asked in return. "Maybe I'm helping you because you're basically a decent person in a bad position. Maybe I'm helping you because everyone else's used you as a pawn in their schemes. Maybe I'm helping you because it's about damned time _somebody_ does something for the right reasons, not for whatever advantage they can get."

Mara's eyes widened. "Maker's breath, you truly mean it. _All_ of it." The Runaway Wife looked down, expression… troubled? "Arl Alistairio, you might just be the most dangerous piece of all in the Game of Princes."

Alistair placed two fingers beneath that pointed chin of hers and forced her to look up at him. "Oh?" he breathed. "What am I?"

"An honest man with the depth of true conviction and the will to use it," she whispered with something close to fear. "Before such resolve, all other things are as chaff on the mighty wind. You will smash through plots and schemes like a bronto in a pottery shop; when your course is set, nothing will sway you. For good or for ill, you will change those whom you come into contact with and they will be as unable to resist you as the tides can the moon's pull."

"You will never have anything to fear from me," he promised, flattered yet subtly disturbed by her words. Why would anyone have to fear truth and honesty?

"It is not fear _of_ you, it is fear _for_ you that worries me," she replied softly. "You cast a long and broad shadow, Alistairio Theirin, and there are those who will fear your influence and see it clipped before it grows into something threatening."

Alistair's lips curved. "So you're worried for me?" he murmured, feeling a sense of triumph.

Mara reminded him of a mabari who'd been stolen by a ruthless thug who'd tried to beat the hound into imprinting on him; it hadn't worked, of course, but the dog still feared contact with humans even as she yearned for it. It had taken the hound master several months of rebuilding the dog's trust in humanity enough for her to imprint… on the old man. Arl Eamon had accepted it with ill grace as mabari imprinted as they pleased.

Mara, scared to trust but giving it to Alistair in spite of herself, trembled with fear but worried for him. It gave him hope that something might be salvaged from this mess…

"Of course. You are a good man who faces more danger than he knows." She squared her shoulders and looked up at him. "And I will do my best to see you triumph."

"You don't have to do anything like that," Alistair protested.

But Mara was shaking her head. "You are a target for people who have never met you and likely never will yet fear you for what you represent. Half-elf, warrior, templar, royal heir… Even those who fear honesty in a world full of lies. You are a good man and I will not see you die, no matter what must be done."

"You will _not_ become like the people you want to fight," Alistair murmured fiercely. He didn't quite know why it was so important to him that Mara avoid becoming a jaded manipulator like Anora… but he didn't want to see those big blue eyes become cold and calculating permanently like the Queen's. Maybe it was the physical resemblance (fine-boned, big blue eyes, long fair hair) that haunted him; maybe it was seeing her starve as Morna and understanding Loony Leliana had been broken by the Game of Princes. But he'd be damned before he saw her become another Anora through necessity.

Whereas that Hound Nate would probably prefer her as a manipulator… A female version of him, doing all sorts of horrible sneaky things for 'the good of all'. Alistair understood that Mara was a rogue with the training of an assassin and a bard but he saw no reason for her to become a cold manipulative bitch…

Daveth moaned and drew Mara's attention away from Alistair's gaze until he gently but firmly used his hold on her chin to make her look back at him. "Promise me," he breathed.

Something akin to panic flashed through her eyes before she slowly nodded. "I promise," she said, the sound little more than a sigh.

Alistair smiled. "Good…" He released her chin and stepped back, still watching her. The abused mabari, terrified to trust but compelled to by her own yearning for contact and closeness… Not that he'd ever say that to her; no woman, even a Fereldan one, would be complimented by being compared to a dog – and even little Chantry boy Alistair understood _that._

"What the…?" Daveth groaned. "Why do I smell like piss?"

"Get up and clean yourself," Jory said curtly, having remained silent and forgotten; Alistair shot a glance at the knight, receiving a deliberately opaque look in reply.

Mara wrapped her arms about herself defensively before offering a jerky nod and walking away without a farewell, Cu looking back as he followed and offering an apologetic growl.

But Alistair wasn't offended. Something profound had passed between the two of them, an understanding of sorts. He wasn't sure where it would lead… but he looked forward to finding out.

All they had to do was kill this pesky archdemon and the world could go back to normal.

…

8th Umbralis 9:30

The northern troops finally arrived.

Ser Roland Gilmore's fiery hair was Mara's beacon as she made her way through the orderly ranks of the assembled soldiers, trying to find the blue and white colours of Whitebridge. This would be her first true impression upon the men of the bannorn and she prayed it would be a good one.

It bothered her sometimes that she was more concerned for Alistair and even Nathanial than her own father; but Bryce Cousland's fate was out of her hands and in those of the Maker now. Nothing she could do would affect his chances of living or dying. What she could change, perhaps, was the fate of the troops who trusted her as Bann despite all she'd done.

In the mass of iron and grey iron sprinkled with the odd set of veridium, Mara's soldiers glittered in burnished steel, their officers clad in the dull green of veridium. Ser Gilmore's heavy plate bore the dark red sheen of dragonbone as he lifted his gauntleted hand in salute and beckoning to the Bann he was now sworn to serve at her father's direction. Fergus, who preferred the solid silver sheen of silverite, turned to face her with a relieved smile but worry darkening his eyes. Scowling and sour-faced, Bann Loren of Lakewood stood beside his pleasantly smiling son Dairren (said to be a contender on her parents' list of new spouses for her), both clad in red steel heavy chainmail while Arl Eamon regarded her sternly beneath the red-plumed helmet of his dragonbone massive plate armour. And last of all, dark and grim, Rennio d'Antiva stood somewhere to the back in Warden Blue leathers with something dangerous glittering in his hematite-grey gaze.

Mara met all of their gazes as best she could, refusing to bow her head beyond the minimum required for a minor Bann to show respect to senior nobility. She had made mistakes – but like these men, she would fight and maybe even die for Ferelden.

"Does Father still live?" she asked Fergus in Antivan simply once she was in speaking distance.

"Aye, though in a coma," he replied in the same tongue, lips pressed tightly in concern. "Will Nate continue the feud?"

"No. King Cailan has commanded we set our differences aside in any case."

"Good…" Fergus sighed, rubbing his nose. "I won't see you married to him, sis, not after the bullshit he pulled. Not unless it's the King's direct command."

"If your King is actually stupid enough to command it, I can render his wishes moot easily enough," Rennio observed sardonically from the back.

"Some of us can speak Antivan you know," Dairren drawled in Fereldan. "Bann Mara, it's good to see you whole and well, though I must confess I would have preferred to meet you _away_ from the battlefield."

"Thank you, Lord Dairren, though the darkspawn have left us little choice," Mara agreed with a sad smile.

"Are you sure you should be here as a new mother?" Arl Eamon asked quietly. "Not to disparage your courage or abilities, Bann Mara, but-"

"'There is no creature more savage than the mabari fighting for her pups'," Mara countered, quoting his own sister Queen Rowan. "I have made _many_ mistakes but I will not see my children dead of the taint, Arl Eamon. _That_ I promise."

Eamon inclined his head, though his expression was still troubled. "Of course, Bann Mara."

Mara looked at her foster father – _truly _looked at him. Rennio looked haggard and his eyes glittered with a queer fury that made her shiver to perceive it. "It is good to see you, father of my heart, but Warden-Commander Duncan asked me to tell you to report to him as soon as you arrived."

"Of course he would," Rennio drawled bitterly. "The Grey Wardens went to _such_ trouble to have me come here in the first place…"

"Rennio, save it for Duncan," Fergus said warningly. "I'm wearing gauntlets today."

"Ah yes. I must remain _polite_." That queer fury flared in Rennio's eyes but he simply offered a tight nod and stalked off into the crowd in search of the Warden-Commander.

"That man… is not entirely sane," Eamon observed as he pulled off his helmet. "I know he's your brother-in-law, Fergus, but-"

"I'm not offended," the heir to Highever replied as he removed his own helmet. "The Blight's got everyone on edge and with his archrival disappearing somewhere…"

Mara had the feeling that Catina Seforzina would be making her way to Ferelden, if not already here. After all, every other person with an interest in playing the Game of Princes was…

"King Cailan is drinking with the Grey Wardens and avoiding Teyrn Loghain, who is walking around muttering about strategies," she told the assembled warleaders. "Arl Nathanial is-"

"Here to take command of the Amaranthine troops," rasped the archer from behind her. Mara refused to act startled as she turned to face the tall, sinewy man who understood the cold-eyed pragmatism which drove many of her actions. He smiled down at her, something warm in those pale eyes for a moment, before he turned a glacial gaze to Fergus – who matched it with a dark, dangerous one of his own. For all their publicly stated intentions to not continue the feud, Nate had obviously heard Fergus' comment about him wedding Mara. "Tell me, Cousland, did my father die painfully?"

"He fell asleep and never woke up," Fergus replied.

"Damn," Nate breathed. "Well, I'm not blaming your family for it. I suspect it was a third party hoping to cause trouble for us all."

"Thank you," Fergus replied, his tone neutral.

"And for what it's worth, I'm sorry for my part in the whole sorry mess. I should have been honest upfront with your sister; she's a smart girl and would have understood the reasons behind it," Nate continued, uncaring of the fact there were other nobles here. No doubt they already knew anyways. "It's my hope she can find it in her heart to forgive me and give me a chance to renew our alliance."

_Manipulative _bastardo, Mara thought sourly. With those words, Nate had made it clear the only barrier to a renewed Cousland-Howe match was on the Couslands' side.

Fergus' lips tightened as he perceived the hidden meaning in Nate's words. "Just remember my sister has good reason _not_ to," he reminded.

"That is very magnanimous of you, Arl Howe, seeing as the girl's effectively damaged goods," Bann Loren observed. "I mean, consorting with a thief, stealing vital papers…"

"That was an act of desperation and deception on another's part," Nate said flatly. "Mara isn't without blame entirely, but there were reasons driving her behaviour."

How the hell could he be so _understanding_? Nate didn't judge her for her behaviour; he understood that she was a rogue through and through. In fact, he probably appreciated it in her because he was a murderer and agent provocateur himself.

Alistair wanted her to be better than she was; Nate accepted her for what she was. One made her feel safe even though she knew he was stupid to be friendly towards her; the other was a familiar quantity who didn't care what she'd done.

Maker's breath, how could she fight a war when her own heart was a battlefield?

…

Nate blessed the protocols which kept Alistair far away from Mara and him next to her as her brother-in-law as they all ate at the commander's high table. In the security of the camp, Mara had set aside her plate armour for a simple shirt and breeches not unlike what the men wore… Except that none of the men or Ser Cauthrien or any of the other females really had a soft, ripe figure which made the white linen and brown moleskin look good.

The sad thing was that Alistair probably saw Mara as a damsel in distress despite the fact that the lady in question was a trained killer. Nate saw her as the weapon she was, the weapon she'd obviously spent the months of her pregnancy training herself to become… Silly royal bastard wanted to put her on a pedestal; Nate wanted Mara by his side in the blood and grime because he knew they understood each other.

He slipped his hand beneath the table and traced a delicate pattern on her thigh with his clever fingers; the Bann of Whitebridge glared at him but said nothing. He'd been alone in his bed for too damned long, and if he could coax Mara back to his tent, he'd remind her of the way sex was between them. And make her forget that rutting, loose-lipped marsh man or the royal Chantry Boy's courtly romance crap or whatever he was doing…

He was now Arl of Amaranthine and it was about damned time he started claiming some of the things which were due him.

"Come back to me," he murmured in her ear. "I made mistakes; we both did. But we can keep our children and raise them together…"

"I have a war to worry about," she replied quietly. "Please, for the Maker's sake, stop this. I don't know if I can ever trust you again."

"Aren't you being a little precious?" he hissed, suddenly angry. "I'm not the one who stole state secrets and then hid for a few months in the stews of Denerim."

Mara's face went cold, colder than ice. "No, you are not," she agreed softly. "But _I_ am not the one who lied to a maiden for a month straight and then let her go into the hands of his sadistic brother… which led to this whole mess."

Then she rose, made her excuses, and left the table. Nate watched her go, unsure of whether to kick her or himself for being a stubborn fool, until she was out of sight.

"She has a point," Teagan observed quietly from across the table as he speared a piece of pork from his salty camp stew with a silver-handled belt-knife. The Bann of Rainesferre met Nate's glare evenly. "Your lack of honesty led to all of this."

"What's your point? I lied and I fucked up. I get it. But marrying me is the best chance Mara has to keep her children yet she'd sooner cut her own nose off to spite her face."

Teagan smiled regretfully. "If you need to ask what the point is, Nate, I don't think you're ready to understand why Mara feels betrayed."

Nate rolled his eyes and stood up to leave, screwing the social graces as he always did. Why the hell did women have to always complicate things? He got that he fucked up. But why did Mara have to keep dragging it out like last year's rubbish?

But he wasn't going to let a little misunderstanding like this get in the way of getting the woman he intended to wed and his children back. No, ser, he was not.


	12. Chapter 11

Note: Thanks for the reviews. So far, Team Alistair is winning! We're officially within the Ostagar Prelude now; countdown to all hell breaking loose… I use the Improved Atmosphere, Grey Wardens of Ferelden and Dragon Age Redesigned mods; hence appearances and equipment will be slightly different to the stuff found within the game. Strong use of language here, since Daveth's a pretty colourful character… I'm also humanising Loghain here; sn0w0wl's made me quite fond of him as a character, and I believe he believes he's doing the right thing by Ferelden…

…

**Chapter 11**

Ostagar, 7th Umbralis (Night), 9:30

Daveth's jaw hurt like a bitch, he was stuck with Ser Jory and some random Dalish elf suffering the Taint from some mirror, and he was being sent into the Korcari Wilds to fetch two vials of darkspawn blood and a set of old treaties Duncan thought might be useful. _Yippee._

As the hastily erected log gate to Ostagar thudded shut behind them, the Grey Warden shed the chatty persona of the city-dwelling cutpurse and became the hunter (and by necessity poacher) his Da had trained him to be. Cutting purses was less work and better pay than hunting deer and so Daveth had embraced the lifestyle of the professional criminal. But here and now, it was the half-Chasind hunter who was needed, not the smartarse.

Theron Mahariel would be more useful out here than that pompous dickhead Jory; the Dalish were fucking awesome hunters. So Daveth set him to vanguard, having him go ahead and scout, and set Jory as rearguard so all he had to worry about was keeping an eye out for darkspawn.

Not two miles from the gates they found the half-submerged corpse of some silly bastard missionary; Daveth rifled through his robes for anything useful, much to Jory's disgust, and found a letter that promised a cache of supplies. Useful, because they were going to need all the shit they could get.

Within another half-mile was a wounded soldier – alive but miraculously untainted. Daveth used his rough and ready knowledge of herblore to bind and poultice the wounds enough for the poor sod to make it back to camp. Theron's gaze was flat and judgmental; Jory looked ready to shit himself as he expressed his fears of running into a patrol of darkspawn unknowingly. A fair fear, but Daveth's bruised jaw made him be harsh with the Redcliffe knight.

"Ya not gonna die without bein' warned about it first," the scout told the bulky, pudgy-faced man. "I'll sense them. But ya need ta catch an' kill yer own darkspawn as part of the Joinin'."

"Nice to know I'll have some premature warning as to my demise," the knight muttered as he resheathed his greatsword, bigger nearly than the wiry Daveth.

"Are all shems such cowards?" Theron asked of the air mockingly.

Jory's jaw set angrily but he kept his yap shut. Given that Theron had muttered a few choice barbs about Daveth's status as leader earlier, the cutpurse had to admit he momentarily admired the knight's restraint in the face of the elf's taunts.

Or maybe he just didn't believe in belting sick people, like Theron obviously was, because it wasn't really knightly behaviour.

Daveth found a Wilds Flower for the poor sick mabari back in Ostagar; he'd had the opportunity to watch Morn- _Mara_ with her Cu and the Chantry Boy with his Barkspawn. He had to admit, that was a pretty damned good name for a mabari.

And just after he found the flower, he felt the now-familiar acidic burning of a darkspawn. "Get ready, lads," he warned as he unlimbered his bow. "We've got company."

He and Theron worked on the genlock archers, turning them into pincushions as Jory bisected two hurlocks with a single swing of that fucking huge grey iron greatsword. The guy was a dick, but he was a damned awesome fighter; Daveth could see why Duncan, the prick, had recruited him… He was still ambivalent about dealing with him as a Warden though.

_This is yer territory, Davvy-me-lad; why don'cha feed these two ta the darkspawn and run like a rabbit fer Gwaren?_ His selfish voice, the one that sounded like his drunken fuck of a Da, was whispering seductively in his mind as he handed vials to the recruits to get their dose of blood. _There's places like Kirkwall, not a Grey Warden in sight there…_

It was tempting. So very fucking tempting. But every time his mind whispered the possibility, he thought of big-eyed Morna – _Mara_ – here because her duty as a Bann compelled her to fight the darkspawn. She was a new Ma and still she was here while lazy fucks sat on their arses in Denerim's court drinking and bitching about the problems the darkspawn were causing.

Daveth was a selfish bastard at times but he wasn't an outright cunt. He'd planned on running… but he couldn't. Not now he'd seen darkspawn in person and knew that a man to be a Da hisself was fighting alongside him.

Once they'd cleared the darkspawn from the missionaries' abandoned camp (Jory had stuck the lockbox, glaring all the while at Daveth, in his backpack), they set up for a couple hours' rest as the cutpurse climbed a hill to figure out where he was. His practiced eyes found the markers of an old Chasind cache, some of which meant retreading old territory… But it might be useful. The Chasind cached some good shit and Maker knew the Wardens could use all the crap they could get because of the pricks who wouldn't tithe properly.

"Haven't we been here before?" Theron asked snidely as they revisited a darkspawn cache on top of a hill to find a marker.

"I'm trackin' a cache of supplies," Daveth replied for the umpteenth time. "Ah, there we go! Under the hill an' around the corner we go."

He sent Theron on ahead (kinda hoping he got eaten by a wolf) as Jory sped up to speak quietly in his ear. "I am… uneasy… about him joining the Wardens," the knight murmured.

"Yeah, he's a bit of a dick, ain't he?" Daveth agreed, rubbing his jaw with a bit of scavenged elfroot.

The knight's mouth quirked in a wry half-smile. "We agree on something. Perhaps it's a sign from the Maker we'll survive this."

"More like some demon's laughin' hisself silly somewhere," Daveth retorted. "Look, sorry for mouthin' off at ya, mate. But Duncan didn't recruit me because I'm the honourable sort. Ya seen them critters… Might take bastards like me ta make them dead."

"I… apologise for describing you as unworthy of the Order," Jory replied. "But you were insulting Bann Mara…"

"I was pretty rude about it, but everythin' I said was the truth," Daveth said as he started walking again, every sense alert for the presence of more darkspawn. "But as that dickhead Alistair said, the story's pretty complicated."

Jory sighed, resting his greatsword on one shoulder with an easy strength Daveth envied. "Anything that starts with a lie is."

"True 'nough – hello, we got company!" Daveth fired off a shot at the emissary guarding the wooden bridge, swearing as the bastard ran back and avoided a bunch of traps. "Theron, cover me, I'm gettin' them traps!"

The Dalish warrior reluctantly obeyed as Jory uttered a war cry which drew a couple genlock rogues to him. Daveth breathed acid, felt the strength go from his limbs, and had some of the life sucked from him as he disabled as many traps as he could – except for one which was stuck. When they were disabled, he yelled for the other two to come forward and made a beeline for the sorcerous darkspawn.

A fire bomb and an acid flask later, the creature had a dagger in its eye and was gurgling its last breath. Jory, bless his heart, was already stripping the other darkspawn of anything useful. Maybe he wasn't quite as dumb as Daveth feared.

Four more darkspawn lurked near the Chasind cache but Daveth nearly orgasmed when he got his hands on a genuine Wilds Bow. He noted Jory practically drooling over the flatblade they'd found earlier and told him to keep it. Fair was fair, after all… Theron palmed the Thane Helmet; it made him look like a dickhead.

One pissed-off spirit later (hey, all Daveth wanted was a wish!), they encountered what had to be the bloody ruins of the Grey Wardens outpost, complete with its very own band of darkspawn! Killing darkspawn was actually getting kind of easier, though the hurlock alpha was a pain in the arse until Jory introduced it to the business end of a Chasind flatblade.

_Well shit,_ Daveth thought as he rummaged in the broken chest for the fucking treaties Duncan said would be there. _We're fucked._

"Well, well, well, what have we here?" crooned a woman's voice, exotic and sensuous, as the scout sat back on his heels and swore.

"I have watched your progress for some time," the voice continued as it came closer, the three men readying weapons. "'Where do they go,' I wondered, 'why are they here?' And now you disturb ashes none have touched for so long. Why is that?"

Daveth looked up and nearly swallowed his tongue. Tall and possessed of a primitive elegance, the woman who wandered down the step towards them had barely-covered tits like big fat creamy melons and black curly hair, her eyes slanted and yellow like a cat's. She wore a long staff slung across her back that burned with violet fire. "You're a Witch of the Wilds, aren't ya?" he blurted.

"Witch of the Wilds! Such idle fancies, those legends. Have you no minds of your own?"

There was a part of Daveth's which definitely had a mind of its own when it came to this woman and he was grateful for the long flap of his leather tunic at front. "Uh. Hi. I'm Daveth. Pleasure ta meet'cha."

It appeared that Daveth the Deft had gotten lost somewhere in the Wilds because all he could do was stammer and stutter like an idiot. Jory stared at him, stunned, while Theron merely regarded him (as always) contemptuously.

"Now that _is _a proper civil greeting, even here in the Wilds. You may call me Morrigan." The woman wandered down closer, yellow eyes burning with amusement as she regarded the trio. "Shall I guess your purpose? You sought something in that chest, something that is here no longer?"

Daveth's mind was stuck on 'chest' (especially since as he was staring at Morrigan's really nice set of tits) and it took him a while to realise she was asking about the treaties. "Uh. Yeah. Lookin' fer treaties. Umm… They was here but they're now gone."

Jory's eyes narrowed. "You took them, didn't you? If so, I think you should return them immediately. They are Grey Warden property."

"I will not, for 'twas not I who removed them!" Morrigan countered.

Daveth's wits finally collected themselves, no thanks to him, and he managed to ask, "Then who removed them?"

"'Twas my mother, in fact." Morrigan sounded like she was either getting bored or exasperated with them both.

"Mother? Uh…" Daveth decided he wanted to spend more time with this woman. "Can ya take us to her?"

Morrigan laughed quietly. "Now there is a sensible request. I like you."

If this Morrigan was a Witch of the Wilds, dying while being fucked dry by the woman seemed like a really appealing end to Daveth, he decided as she added, "Follow me then, if it pleases you."

It appeared that Morrigan's hindquarters were as lush and appealing as her frontage; Daveth watched her arse the whole way back as Jory followed, grumbling about how cold the forest was, and Theron took rearguard sourly.

If Morrigan's Ma had been as attractive as she, it must have been a long time ago, because she was an ugly old hag… But she had the treaties. "Uh, thanks fer hangin' onta them," he managed to say when she handed them over, alien yellow eyes glittering with amusement.

"Such manners! Always in the last place you expect to find them – like stockings," she cackled.

"Now you may return," Morrigan said.

"Do not be silly, girl! They are your guests."

"Oh, very well. I'll show you back. Follow me."

The trip back was shockingly quick; the sky was tinged with pink as they returned. Daveth didn't really notice the sunrise because he was too busy admiring Morrigan's lush form. Poor Mara really didn't have nothing on the witch.

As he approached Duncan, waiting patiently by the fire (fucking hell, did the man ever sleep?), he wondered if he'd ever see Morrigan again.

…

Ostagar, 8th Umbralis (Morning) 9:30

"Nathanial, I am sympathetic to your wishes. But I'm not forcing Bann Mara into a marriage just so recently after her first traumatic one."

"Dammit, Mara knows I'll treat her well. She's just confused because of the after-pregnancy emotions," Nate argued, trying not to glare at Cailan, resplendent in his gilded dragonbone armour, as the king paced around the royal enclosure.

"Be that as it may, I will not issue a royal writ commanding her to marry you," Cailan replied, light tenor taking on that steely tone so natural to the Theirins. "You are welcome to try and court her – and I will certainly clear her of any accusations of wrongdoing – but I will not _force_ her. Maker knows I've never been the most temperate of men, but I've never forced a woman – and I won't start now. My decision on this matter is final: as I will it, so mote it be."

Nate's hands clenched into fists as the king stalked out to go drinking with the Grey Wardens, no doubt much to Duncan's consternation. In another time the Arl of Amaranthine would have found the Warden-Commander's struggles to remain diplomatic in the face of Cailan's utmost stupidity amusing, but now he was too consumed with how to get Mara and the twins back. Marriage would make everything so simple… but Mara kept on refusing and she had both her brother and that damned Alistair backing her up. And now Cailan, damn his eyes.

"You should have waited a little while," Loghain advised as he rolled up one of his precious maps. "Everyone is on edge with the war."

"Your daughter commanded my twins be taken off their mother!" Nate snarled, turning to face the Teyrn of Gwaren. "Mara wouldn't be so fucking unsettled if she hadn't been forced into the Chantry!"

Loghain's storm-grey eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "…Anora was overzealous in her attempts to prevent a blood feud," he grudgingly conceded. "Your father wanted the girl's head and she was trying to appease him while not antagonising the Couslands overmuch."

"I'll admit my lie started the whole damned mess," Nate confessed as he sat down on a spare seat, head in his hands as he sighed bitterly. "I… You have no idea what it was like to grow up in my father's household. Wolf-eat-wolf… Thom survived by becoming like Father, Delilah survived by being passive, and I… just stopped caring and obeyed him. I should have said something, gone to the Couslands…"

Loghain sat down beside him, gauntleted hand settling on his drakeskin-clad shoulder sympathetically. "I'm not certain the Couslands would have seen your side of it, Nathanial. Especially since they dance to the tune of Rennio d'Antiva and he has expressed his displeasure about the Howe-Cousland alliance."

"Actually, he told me he thought it was a good idea Mara and I wed," Nate replied bitterly. "He only objected to not being consulted first – I get the feeling he'd have demanded _me_ as the groom."

"And you should have been," Loghain agreed. The general sighed. "The stability of Ferelden resides in the hands of a justifiably traumatised girl…"

"Something that royal bastard Alistair's taking advantage of," Nate continued, grateful to have found a sympathetic ear in an unlikely place. "And the way Mara is at the moment, she'll lap up that royal idiot's courtly love crap and wind up doing something stupid."

"She can't be allowed to marry Alistair," Loghain murmured. "I will _not_ allow Rennio d'Antiva to get his hooks into the royal family."

Something about the way Loghain spoke brought Nate out of his self-pitying brooding enough to catch his attention. The general nodded thoughtfully, eyes glinting in thought. "It might be Mara's trying to protect her children the only way she can think of by aligning herself with the half-elf. Alistair's naïve when it comes to women and I _know_ you care for her, Arl Howe, but she has learned how to manipulate men to a certain degree. Do not doubt that."

"She sees… me… as a threat?" Nate ventured.

Loghain shrugged. "I saw it sometimes in the women victimised by the Orlesians. They would try to find the strongest man to protect them from further brutalisation… A Prince would be, in theory, much better placed to protect Mara and the twins – in her eyes."

That made a lot of sense even as it caused a new surge of bitterness to boil in Nate's gut. Mara had spent the past few months honing herself into a weapon to protect her children; it made sense she would see Alistair's obvious interest as a Maker-sent gift and use it to advance her own goals. He couldn't be angry with her for doing so; Delilah had used similar tricks in marrying that wealthy merchant husband of hers.

"I just want her, me and the twins to be a family," Nate told the Teyrn sincerely. "I don't judge her for what she had to do, Teyrn Loghain… and I'm sure if you could talk to Anora, she'd understand too."

"Anora has something of a one-track mind at the moment: maintaining her position because of suspected barrenness," Loghain admitted grimly. "Mara Howe, widowed, disgraced and of proven fertility, is a perfect candidate for the Right of Kings."

Nate's eyes narrowed as Cailan's motives in being kind to the Bann of Whitebridge became clear. He was desperate for an heir of his own blood – Alistair, while freshly legitimised, was still too risky as Crown Prince because of his elven heritage – and if he could sire one on a woman who agreed to be his concubine for a year and a day, he would strengthen his position. Perhaps Anora feared being set aside… Then he recalled something _he'd_ come across which would surely interest Loghain.

"Cailan's been in private correspondence with the Empress of Orlais concerning a military alliance," he informed the Teyrn calmly. "If Mara bore him an heir of Fereldan blood, he could pacify the Landsmeet… especially if he married the Empress to join our kingdoms together."

Loghain went stock-still, the colour draining from his craggy face. "That… little bastard. I wonder who put him up to it?"

"I'd say Eamon. Who's married to a fifth cousin of the Empress, after all?"

"It… makes hideous sense. And it would explain the murder of your brother: Rennio d'Antiva is at least mildly anti-Orlesian, so Catina Seforzina's Journeyman murders Thom to set up Mara in a bad light – perhaps even manipulated that thief, Daveth, through intermediaries…" Loghain began to pace around the King's tent, eyes blazing. "Well done, Howe: you have proven to have your father's virtues with none of his vices."

Nate sighed. "Thank you… So Mara's just a pawn then?"

"I believe so. Perhaps even the Couslands, though I suspect Rennio was going to use them…" Loghain stopped pacing and looked directly at Nate, gaze grim. "Cailan is… compromised. Alistair might be saved but only if he's in the right hands."

"He doesn't like your daughter; she _did_ try to have him murdered," Nate reminded him.

Loghain sighed. "I know… We need to weed out the traitors in our midst… and this battle will prove to be a useful method of doing so."

"Cailan intends to stand with the Grey Wardens," Nate said slowly. "I… assume that the men of Redcliffe and Rainesferre will be standing with him?"

He bore Teagan no particular ill will; the Houndmaster was a fine man, but essentially an unambitious, overly loyal one. He would support Cailan and Eamon no matter what, so he would have to die.

"Indeed," Loghain confirmed. "Amaranthine will be standing with Gwaren at the right flank while Highever and South Reach are at the left. West Hills and Waking Sea will be stationed on the bridge."

"Lakewood's a bit unreliable," Nate warned, seeing a way to remove a rogue element in the form of the fickle Bann Loren and his son Dairren.

"I'll have them manning the perimeter," Loghain agreed. "Denerim and Whitebridge will be assigned to the Tower of Ishal to light the beacon."

Nate smiled for the first time in a while. He liked the way Loghain thought. "We could bring South Reach onto our side by promising Bryland Habren will marry Alistair. She's afire for the man."

"Anora will be-"

"Teyrn, your daughter cannot be Queen anymore. But Chancellor is just as good, if not better, if we can persuade our new King to set aside a justified dislike," Nate hissed. It was a good thing that the guard stationed at Cailan's tent today was one of Loghain's handpicked men from Maric's Shield…

"I… You're right." Loghain sighed. "Anora's… proud. But practical. She'll understand in time."

"If I'm married to Mara, I can muzzle Fergus Cousland," Nate assured the general. "He's much like his father but with a bigger dose of practicality."

"All you need to do is persuade the girl then," Loghain told him.

Nate grinned. "Give me some time alone with her and I'll do just that."

The Teyrn of Gwaren bowed his head, craggy features softening just a fraction. "You're a good man and a true patriot, Howe. I'll remember that."

"And you understand the needs of our nation, Teyrn Loghain. No man could guide us through this tumultuous time better than you."

They shook hands and the fate of their beloved nation – and Nate's Mara – was decided.

…

8th Umbralis (Noon)

Mara dipped the cloth in the water, wrung it out, and sponged the delirious soldier's sweating forehead. He was a Whitebridge man named Eoin, a father with three children… and the only survivor of a patrol into the Korcari Wilds sent to rendezvous with her brother Fergus. Daveth had sent him back during his foray into the Wilds on some unspecified Warden business.

"Bann, if you will allow me?" spoke a vaguely familiar voice belonging to the older woman in a Senior Enchanter's robes to her side.

Mara nodded and rose from the stool, legs aching, as the mage took her seat and held her hands palm-down about six inches above Eoin's chest. Pale blue motes of energy glittered like fireflies about the soldier's body as the gut-wound he possessed healed enough to be stitched closed, all infection banished.

Once the physician had taken over, Mara helped the elderly woman to her feet. "You are Senior Enchanter Lynne?" she asked.

"Wynne," the mage corrected kindly. "A long way from the Lothering Chantry and your children, Sister Mara."

"Bann Mara. This man was one of my people and so I must thank you for healing him… and I when I gave birth to the babies," she replied.

"Ah…" Wynne smiled and leaned on her staff. "You're welcome, my dear. If more nobles were like you, the world would be a better place."

"If you knew half the trouble I caused, you'd speak differently," Mara observed ruefully, touched by the mage's words.

"Who's to say I don't already?" Wynne asked. She looked over to a tree near a cauldron of stew. "If you'll excuse me, I believe dinner is calling me."

"Of course… Again, thank you." Mara let the mage go to the mages' cooking fire and sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Battle would be joined tonight. As commander of a force within the King's army, Mara would have to go to the war council planned for the early evening. She wondered what her assignment would be…

For all its size, the camp was far too small for her comfort. Nathanial took every opportunity he could get to speak to her, murmuring quiet suggestions and reminders of pleasures shared in bed. Her body remembered his touch well… but her mind screamed _Thom_ every time she looked into those pale eyes. She tried to make him understand just how deeply wounded, just how mistrustful, she was because of his lie; he didn't seem to, or maybe even _want_ to, understand – instead speaking of the benefits in a tone similar to how her parents had coaxed her into wedding Thom.

Daveth was walking with Warden-Commander Duncan and two men, one of them Ser Jory of Redcliffe, the winner of the grand melee at Highever in celebration of Funalis, and the other a sick-looking Dalish elf, towards the old temple. They looked solemn and Duncan had requested that none come to that place because of a Grey Warden ceremony. For a moment the thief's eyes met hers and he nodded with the ghost of a wry smile; somehow she found it in her to match the expression.

Alistair was somewhere near the ramp that separated Loghain's tent from the King's. He turned and spotted her walking away from the infirmary near the Korcari Wilds gate, making a gesture to join him. She whistled for Cu, gossiping with Barkspawn and several of the Ash Warriors' mabari; the hound peeled himself away from the group, his mate joining him, and they walked across the camp to meet the amber-eyed Prince.

"Two of the Grey Wardens brought in a genlock corpse to show us what we're up against," he told her once she was in earshot. "I thought it might be a good idea for us to look at it."

"Indeed," she agreed softly. They walked up the ramp, past Loghain's tent – just as Nate and the Teyrn himself emerged. If looks could have killed, the icy gaze the Arl of Amaranthine bestowed upon the Arl of Denerim should have frozen him solid. But Alistair's eyes met Nate's easily, blazing golden with contempt and defiance.

"Bann Mara, may I speak to you for a moment?" Loghain asked, fixing the young woman with a gimlet gaze.

"Is it important, Teyrn?" Alistair asked politely. "I was just taking her to see the genlock corpse brought in this morning so she could see what we're fighting here."

"An admirable idea; I won't keep her long," the general promised firmly.

"I will join you when I have spoken to the Teyrn," Mara promised Alistair, who gave her a smile warm as the sun in Antiva.

Somehow she'd come to consider him a friend in the weeks they'd known each other. She… trusted him. It was a strange feeling to trust someone again. Perhaps it was that legendary Theirin charisma…

Regretfully she turned from the Prince to join Loghain in his tent, guarded by the dour Ser Cauthrien, and tried not to fidget like a child as the Teyrn closed the flap for privacy and gestured for her to take a seat at the camp-desk strewn with maps. She obeyed, wondering what she was going to be lectured about _now…_

"I'd tell you that you remind me of Anora at your age, when she'd get that stubborn set to her jaw and a flinty look in her big blue eyes, but I have a feeling I would become acquainted with the Orlesian nutcracker," Loghain observed with a wry quirk of his lips. "So therefore I won't."

"You're _too_ kind," Mara said with just a hint of acerbity to her voice. "How may I help you, Teyrn Loghain?"

"I also won't tell you to get over whatever feelings of betrayal you may have involving Nathanial Howe; only time can help you there. Though I _will_ tell you he is sincerely regretful for what he did to you," Loghain continued, a rare note of kindness in his voice. "Rendon Howe is no doubt answering to the Maker now for many things and the way he treated his children, by birth and by marriage, is surely one of them."

"…I see," Mara said slowly. That Loghain favoured her marrying Nate went unspoken, though he seemed happy enough to let her find the time to forgive him… for now.

"I also apologise for Anora's overzealousness in protecting Ferelden's stability," he added with something approaching gentleness. "She was… working with incomplete knowledge. But I can safely say that you are guilty of nothing more than trying to protect yourself in a horrible situation – and I will make that clear to her. She listens to me and so will understand."

"I… thank you," Mara responded, trying to piece together what it was he was trying to say to her. Finally, she decided to be blunt. "But these things are not why I was summoned here."

"No, they aren't." Loghain seemed to approve of her bluntness; he was known to be a plainspoken man. "But I just want to assure you you're _safe_ now, lass. With Rendon dead, I see no reason to have your children taken from you, whether or not you choose to marry Nate – though I think it would be good for you both if you did."

Personally Mara thought either the general overestimated his ability to influence Anora or that he was truly blind to her ambitious nature, but she nodded and asked, "Why are you telling me this?"

"You don't need to play the victim so much around Alistair. I understand _why_ you're doing it – I saw girls raped by the Orlesians do it to protect themselves during the occupation – but I'm saying you don't _have_ to." Loghain's grey-blue eyes were compassionate as he looked at her.

"I'm not…" Mara protested. "He is kind and I trust him! That is all!"

"Maybe you're not doing it consciously, but he makes you feel safe, doesn't he?" At Mara's reluctant nod, Loghain sighed. "Just… don't spend so much time around him, lass. He wants to be a knight in shining armour and you being so needy feeds into that particular fantasy of his. One id-… _naïve_ Theirin's enough for me. Alistair's a smart, steady man and I need him focused on the darkspawn, not on protecting a damsel in distress."

Mara hung her head, tears trickling down her cheeks as she absorbed Loghain's words. The Teyrn was right; Alistair was spending more time with her than he should. "I… You're right, Teyrn. I am sorry… I just wanted…"

"To feel safe. I understand." Loghain patted her shoulder awkwardly. "You're a good lass, Mara, and a smart one. I think one day, when we've slaughtered the darkspawn and gone home, we'll all look back on this part of your life as a bad dream."

"Of course… Is there anything else?" Mara sniffled, trying to get the tears back under control. Loghain offered her a rag used for cleaning and oiling his sword; she dabbed at her cheeks until they were dry though her eyes burned with more.

"Not at the moment," Loghain said gently. "Mara… You're a true daughter of Ferelden. If there's anything you need, just ask me and I'll help you."

"Thank you, Teyrn," Mara replied hollowly as she returned the rag, rose to her feet, offered a cross-armed bow, and then left without another word.

She barely registered Alistair's look of surprised hurt as she walked right past him without acknowledging his presence, breaking into a run that carried her all the way to her tent, where she was finally safe enough to dissolve into helpless tears.

It wasn't fair! All she'd wanted to do was feel safe… All she wanted was somebody to trust. But how could she manipulate Alistair like that? She was selfish and had to put duty to Ferelden before her own selfish desires…

But it wasn't fair…


	13. Chapter 12

Note: Thanks for the reviews and follows. I found the lack of concern for the dead recruits after the Joining a bit disturbing, so I'm playing around a bit with canon (and I figure Mara would know the _In Uthenera _song as Leliana is her mentor). I also know that Ashley Ashburn is a soprano (and a beautiful one) but Mara's a contralto – imagine an operatic contralto like Eula Beal singing Bach's 'Erbarme Dich' (seriously, YouTube it, it's awesome). I'm also changing up dialogue, mostly through laziness. :P

…

**Chapter 12**

8th Umbralis (Mid-Afternoon)

"Mara!"

The Bann of Whitebridge practically ran past Alistair, ignoring his presence, with her cheeks splotched red from crying. He held out a hand to try and catch her but she vanished in the crowd of soldiers, messengers and other army personnel before he could even react. Cu whined worriedly and bolted after her, leaving Alistair standing by the ramp looking like an idiot.

_What did that craggy-faced bastard say to her? _he wondered, glaring at the Teyrn's tent. Much to his surprise, he saw Zevran sitting there in the shade it cast, dressed in homespun like a servant as he mended an old boot. When the elf realised he was looking, he raised dark-honey eyes that blazed with fury to meet the Prince's stunned gaze. Then he slanted a gaze towards the ramp where there would be a couple good spots to talk quietly.

Despite despising the Game of Princes, Alistair was learning more of subterfuge than he ever wanted to; instead of skulking like a spy, he gestured imperiously to and commanded Zevran, whose eyes flashed with a mixture of rage and amusement, to drop what he was doing and follow him. With a heartfelt sigh the Antivan Crow obeyed, literally dropping the boot in the shadow of the Teyrn of Gwaren's tent and slouching reluctantly up the ramp.

At this time of day, the priestess who usually meditated on the edge of the gorge was gone, leaving the round parapet of stone empty of anyone save them. Once they were alone, Zevran turned to Alistair and said very calmly, "I think cutting the throats of your Loghain and that Nathanial Howe would be a service to your kingdom." Then he elaborated on how Loghain had manipulated Mara through her sense of duty and belief she was somehow to blame for the entire mess involving Thom Howe to agree to stop seeing Alistair.

When it was done, Alistair indulged himself in a few savage Chasind curses before throwing a rock off the parapet in fury. "That… Gah!"

"Indeed." Zevran looked over the gorge with a quiet fury which was the more frightening for its calmness. "Crow training, if you are not a member of the aristocracy like Rennio or Catina, is as brutal as anything Mara went through at the hands of the Howes. It deadens you, leaves you cold, makes it easier to become a murderer and manipulator."

"…Mara's in danger of forcing herself into Tranquility just to cope," Alistair said bitterly. "Her brother's scouting the Wilds, she's just essentially been ordered not to be in my presence… That fucking bastard Howe will present himself as a sympathetic ear…"

"Indeed. I believe Loghain believed what he was saying, but I would not be surprised if Nate Howe put those words into his head," Zevran agreed. "That poor girl…"

"Why such sympathy for her, anyways? Isn't she the foster daughter of your Grandmaster's greatest enemy?"

"_Si,_" Zevran confirmed. "But _La Dolorosa_ sends out her Crows with two orders: impede Rennio d'Antiva in any way we can and to succour women who have been wronged by the manipulations of men, in particular those of the Game of Princes."

Alistair smiled bitterly. "And Rennio thinks the sun shines out of Nate Howe's arse."

_"Si,"_ the elf repeated. "He thinks of his great work, the unification of Thedas through diplomacy. He does not think of his foster daughter's tears or the betrayal she must feel at Nate Howe's lies."

"So in helping Mara, you obey your orders," Alistair observed with a sharp smile. "And this Catina looks good while thumbing her nose at Rennio."

Yes, despite his despising of the Game, he was surely beginning to understand it.

"Actually, she has no nose," Zevran said seriously. "It was burned off when she was set on fire."

"What the…" Alistair was aghast as he stared at the Antivan Crow. "Who the hell would do such a thing?"

Zevran's gaze was bleak. "Rennio d'Antiva. He doused her in oil and set her on fire after a dish of poisoned figs she sent his family killed his mother Veronica and almost killed his sister Oriana. This was in retaliation for Rennio's murder of Catina's brother, a minor lordling who sat in a wealthy position an ally of Rennio's coveted for his own."

"Maker's breath, you people are really something," Alistair observed, his voice thick with loathing.

Zev smiled sadly. "I am a tool, Alistairio. I try to live and survive as I can."

"I guess the Crows would kill you if you just left, huh?"

"Of course. But there are worse fates…" Somehow Alistair got the feeling Zev was trying to convince himself more than he was trying to convince the royal bastard.

"Well… I'm not going to let that bastard win… Any of them," Alistair vowed. "I assume you know where Mara's tent is?"

"Of course." Zev grinned savagely. "I hope we survive tonight… Because I think I shall see a demonstration of the irresistible force versus the immovable object."

He then gave Alistair the location of the Runaway Wife's tent. Alistair thanked him and ran, knowing he wouldn't have much time before either Howe showed up or the war council started.

On the way he stopped by his tent to grab something he'd retrieved from Lothering. He hoped she'd like it.

…

Zevran smiled as he watched the Bastard Prince run off in search of his beloved. Alistair Theirin was like a bull in a glassworker's shop: blunt, forceful and unstoppable. Just by existing, he shook up the Game in Ferelden… His honesty and open charm were invigorating, his innate decency exasperating, and his natural disgust at political acts Zev considered typical amusing. That supporting him annoyed Rennio d'Antiva was a bonus.

_Maker bless the Warden-Commander Duncan for keeping the Prince of Crows busy,_ the Journeyman thought cheerfully as he went back to his own tent. Rennio was visibly furious at the half-Rivaini man's expectation that the Black Griffin actually function as a Grey Warden instead of an Antivan Crow. Interestingly enough, the littlest things set the Grandmaster Emeritus off these days…

"Rennio is old for a Warden," _La Dolorosa_ had warned him before he left Antiva. "It has been my observation that they become quicker to anger and violence. Be wary because the most dangerous Warden is an old, dying one."

Zev wasn't entirely sure why he'd accompanied Alistair south to Ostagar; surely Redcliffe or Lothering were as close to the fighting as he needed to get. But the Bastard Prince had chosen to consider him a friend with eyes – and arms – wide open… and that removed any inclination of Zev's to casually betray him. If the Crows commanded it he would do so… reluctantly.

He closed the flap of his tent and withdrew the latest letter from Catina, rereading it with worried eyes. Arriving just before they'd left Denerim for Ostagar, the missive detailed Rennio's singlehanded slaughter of ninety percent of _La Dolorosa's_ Crow cells… and Taliesen's recruitment by the rogue Grandmaster. She'd been forced to go to ground and inform Zev that he was now effectively her right hand.

The slim golden ring set with a black onyx with an intaglio crow carved into its face that had accompanied the letter now rested on his right index finger. For good or for ill, Zevran Arainai was now a Crow Master, free to recruit his own cell – in fact expected to since Rennio had decimated Catina's supporters.

Despite the lack of civilised surroundings and conversation, Zev wasn't regretting coming to Ferelden. There was a lot of opportunity in this cold, muddy land for such as he…

Unlike many Masters and Grandmasters, the elf had no interest in the Game of Princes beyond the knowledge of who, what, where and why of any particular situation. In fact, he found the politics mildly amusing and interesting only in who would hire him. Alistair, bless his heart, wouldn't consider the sending of a Crow as a political solution… unless it was going to be cheaper than a war. The Bastard Prince, unlike his idiot of a brother, disdained unnecessary violence and the pursuit of vengeance.

Cultivating the alliance between Mara Howe and Alistair Theirin was more than just meddling in Rennio's plans. He _liked_ Alistair and pitied the girl; he'd be good for her and she was cunning enough to keep the Arl of Denerim alive. But now Nathanial Howe was using dirty tricks to try and win Mara… _without_ regard for what she wanted.

Zev was many things but he'd never forced a woman. Catina wouldn't have recruited him otherwise.

Somehow the elf had become Alistair's partisan. And that disturbed the hell out of him. He was a cold-blooded assassin, not some loyal lackey!

He sighed and began to don his armour. He would be joining the Tower of Ishal forces because there was no way he was going to be fighting in a massive pitched battle…

As the sun drifted towards the western horizon and the shadows lengthened, Zev felt the chill of premonition run down his spine. Something was going to go wrong; he knew it.

…

Ostagar (Late Afternoon)

The salty chicken broth being spooned into his mouth tasted marvellous, Jory thought as his eyes fluttered open to meet the grave dark ones of Duncan and Daveth's sombre brown gaze. "Welcome. It is over. You are one of us now," the Warden-Commander intoned solemnly, helping the knight to his feet.

"There is no glory in this," Jory repeated bitterly. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Most people have no fear of dying in the heat of battle, but the cold loneliness of self-sacrifice is something else entirely," Duncan replied regretfully. "If more understood the need, such secrecy would be unnecessary. Would you have come if you'd known?"

"…No," the knight admitted. "I… will see my Helena when this is all over?"

"I pray so," Duncan said quietly. "Now rest for a moment before the war council begins. The King wants you, Daveth and myself there."

"Might be a good idea ta grab somethin' ta eat an' take a piss now," the thief Daveth said with rough kindness. The unshaven Junior Warden wore iron-studded Warden Blue scout leathers and carried the Chasind bow they'd located earlier as he offered the bowl of broth he'd been spooning into Jory's mouth.

Jory had mistaken the man for little more than scum, especially since he'd made lewd comments concerning Bann Mara Howe and insulted a Prince of Ferelden. But perhaps Duncan had seen more to the pickpocket than what was on the surface; Daveth was no coward and his survival skills were impressive.

_Speaking of survival skills…_ Jory looked over to the left and blanched when he saw the cloak-covered body of Theron Maharial. The Dalish warrior had been abrasive and even racist (Jory was self-aware enough to admit that his own remarks concerning surprise at elves joining the Grey Wardens may have increased the antipathy between the two recruits) but he wouldn't wish such a horrible death on anyone.

Jory had balked at drinking the darkspawn blood until Duncan had drawn his dagger and informed him that there was no turning back. Even so it had taken Daveth to talk the knight down from drawing his sword and out of his cowardice to drink the concoction of lyrium and taint. "Ya can die a coward or ya can die a brave man," the scout had told him flatly. Ashamed at his lack of courage, Jory had submitted himself to the taint… and survived.

Perhaps Duncan had seen bravery in the thief because Daveth hadn't flinched once upon facing the darkspawn…

Duncan soon left and Daveth rolled his neck to relieve strain before stripping Theron of his leathers and weapons. "He don't need them no more," the Warden said pragmatically as he tucked the Dalish warrior's ancestral dagger into his belt. "An' the quartermaster will trade a bunch of fire an' ice arrows for this shit, not ta mention more bombs."

"We should… have some kind of service for him," Jory said awkwardly, not sure how the Dalish took care of their dead.

"We need ta stick him on the pyres 'cause of his taint," Daveth said. "We'll scatter his ashes in the forest or somethin' later. But we got an hour until the council… Best have a meal, take a piss an' make yer peace with the Maker before meetin' His Majesty."

It was Jory who carried the dead recruit's corpse to a pyre, hoping that the Maker would take care of a non-believer or that the Creators (the Dalish elves' heathen gods) existed. He had drunk without hesitation and deserved that much…

Much to his surprise, Bann Mara of Whitebridge was standing by the pyre, staring morosely into the flames. He recalled Highever rumour that the youngest Cousland was something of a scholar – perhaps she knew something of Dalish customs?

"You live and the Dalish recruit died then." It was a statement, not a question, as she stared at him with those enormous blue eyes. In passing, Jory noted that she wore a necklace comprised of two strands of delicate golden links twisted into a thicker rope, her fingers twined through it fretfully. A gift from Arl Alistair, perhaps – he'd seen the way that they'd looked at each other. He knew love, for he saw it in Helena's beautiful grass-green eyes…

"Yes… My lady, it is said you are a scholar of sorts… Do you know anything on Dalish funeral customs? Theron must be burnt… but I don't think verses from the Chant of Light would be appropriate."

Mara's smile was sad. "I have heard they bury their dead beneath a tree… I know not what laments are sung for the Dalish, but a friend of mine taught me an elven song sung at her mother's funeral. It is my hope, for your friend's sake, the elvish Creators will not take it amiss that a shem woman sung for one of their people."

Jory threw Theron's cloak-wrapped corpse onto the pyre with a mighty heave as Mara stepped back and took a deep breath, a singer's breath, and began to sing in a rich contralto full of enough sorrow to break an archdemon's heart.

"_Hahren na melana sahlin_

_Emma ir abelas_

_Souver'inan isala hamin_

_Vhenan him dor'felas_

_in uthenera na revas._

_Vir sulahn'nehn_

_Vir dirthera_

_Vir samahl la numin_

_Vir 'lath sa'vunin'."_

Jory would, in later years, be unashamed to admit that he wept – as did most of those who heard her. He also understood that the Bann was singing for more than just Theron – she was lamenting the lives lost because of the events surrounding her, those lost to the horde, those that _would_ be lost tonight…

Even Duncan, grizzled, hardened Duncan, bowed his head with a single tear falling down one scar-seamed streak; Loghain, leaving his tent for the war council, looked at the girl with a surprised expression; Cailan, just exiting the King's tent, observed her with something approaching awe as his brother Alistair, on his heels, watched her like she was the second coming of Andraste; Daveth, predictably, just shook his head and returned to haggling with the quartermaster; and Nate Howe…

Jory mistrusted the fleeting look of avaricious possessiveness which marked the Arl of Amaranthine's face… He knew love when he saw it – and _that_ was not it.

But he had a battle to prepare for; once Bann Mara had completed her song, Jory bowed to her and went to the Grey Wardens' encampment to armour up in his new steel Warden plate (from a recently deceased Warden) and sheathed the Chasind flatblade across his back. But first he ate a meal of dried grain and meat rolls and relieved himself, as Daveth advised.

Then he walked slowly to the war council, feeling the storm gathering beneath the surface of this place. When it broke… May the Maker have mercy on them all…

…

Ostagar (Twilight)

Alistair tasted the familiar tang of battle-readiness as he took his place at the map-strewn trestle table around which the war council gathered. Torches burned against the gathering darkness of both night and darkspawn, casting flickering ochre light which transformed familiar faces into something uncanny, and elves who could have been his siblings or cousins scurried about to provide a last-minute meal for those commanders who'd missed out on eating earlier due to preparations.

As Teyrn Loghain and Arl Nathanial came to the table, Alistair felt an icy calm descend upon him as he recalled the shattered state Mara had been earlier. She'd begged him to go for his own sake and apologised for manipulating him just because she wanted to feel safe… It had taken Cu jumping on her and licking her face until she giggled to stop the weeping and get her into a state where she would actually _listen_…

And Maker's breath, that song… He knew it: _In Uthenera_, an elvish lament, sung at the funeral of Corporal Yarin's cousin when he'd died of a sickness. Alistair had gone because the elf-blooded Guardswoman had encouraged him to get to know his elvish roots… It had been haunting when sung by Valendrian, _hahren_ of the Denerim Alienage… When sung by Mara, who'd received some of the training of a fabled Orlesian bard from Loony Leliana, it was fit to break a harder heart than Alistair's.

He had the feeling that she was pouring her own grief and regret at everything which had happened since her marriage to Thomas Howe into that song. Perhaps Teyrn Loghain and that bastard Nate had listened and repented of their manipulation of the girl.

Though probably not on Howe's part. The Arl watched her every movement like a hawk… Alistair wanted to punch him but Cailan had advised him against it as they'd armoured up, squiring for each other like brothers should, for the battle. "Be careful, my brother: Nate Howe's an experienced assassin and a spy," the King had warned. "He's also Rendon's son in many ways, according to Teagan."

Cailan had been disgusted with Loghain's lecturing of Mara and amused by Zev's initiative. "Every royal must deal with the Game of Princes," he said as Alistair tightened a rerebrace. "But Howe operates on the level of the murder game: the covert work, the murders, the defamations… Nothing is sacred there, Alistair, and if Howe deems you an enemy he'll use every damned trick he knows to destroy you."

"Good thing I don't have any vices," Alistair joked, trying to conceal his uneasiness.

"You may not have vices but you have friends you care about," Cailan told him bluntly. "There may come a time when you must decide between the life of one you care for versus the lives of those you are sworn to protect as Arl and Prince."

Alistair took a shaky breath and asked, "How do you make that kind of choice?"

Cailan shrugged. "I don't know. I've never had to."

"Some help you are then," Alistair groused, concealing his worry behind humour. Cailan had grinned at him.

Mara was standing by one of the torches, fingers twisted in the golden rope necklace he'd given her. The merchant who'd sold it assured him it was Antivan in design; he was incorrect, as it was Qunari work (who would have thought the sullen giants were capable of such surpassingly delicate work?), but she'd accepted it after a lot of earnest talk on Alistair's part. Yet her eyes were still troubled, no doubt from Loghain's lecture about 'playing the victim'… Maker's breath, she _was_ a victim!

Loghain might be a mighty general but by the Maker he was a prick.

Duncan, Daveth, Ser Jory and Rennio d'Antiva stood closer to the table. The Warden-Commander was almost inhumanly serene, the thief fidgety, the knight stoic and the Antivan Crow burning with a dangerous rage. Alistair wondered how this man could be considered one of the greatest political masterminds of Thedas when he seemed quick to fury and prone to violence. No wonder Duncan was keeping him on a short leash.

Cailan looked bored; Alistair respected and even cared for his brother but he had no illusions about his capacity as a ruler. He already knew that the King hoped to get tainted in the upcoming battle so he could become a Grey Warden… Alistair selfishly hoped it didn't happen. He didn't want to be ruler.

The other commanders soon filed in, helping themselves to bread and cheese and dried meat served with small ale and cider. Loghain wasted no time in assigning various positions to the gathered lords and ladies, all of whom accepted their duties with grunts, sighs or nods as suited their nature. Alistair felt relief that Mara would be sent to the Tower of Ishal but was less than impressed with his own assignment there until Cailan gave him the Royal Command look. He pitied Eamon and Teagan, assigned to the anvil with the Grey Wardens all because Cailan was intent on fighting with the warrior Order.

"You shouldn't be on the frontlines," Loghain said flatly.

"If you're so worried about my safety, perhaps I ought to await the aid of the Orlesians?" Cailan asked calmly.

Something dark and savage flashed in Loghain's eyes before he replied with, "I must protest your fool notion we need the Orlesians to save us."

"It is not a fool notion! Our disagreements with the Orlesians are a thing of the past."

"How fortunate Maric didn't live to see his son so eager to invite the bastards who enslaved us for over a century back into the country!" Loghain said through gritted teeth.

"Then our current forces will have to suffice, won't they? I will stand with the Grey Wardens. My decision is final."

"If you stand with the Grey Wardens, your decision will most likely _be_ final – your final one." Much to everyone's surprise, Mara spoke up, stepping from her shadowy corner. "The anvil is… the most dangerous position. It is where the force of the darkspawn will be concentrated. I do not mean any insult to your skill or courage, Your Majesty, but you are a highly visible target – one necessary to morale. If you fall, the lines may break and run, which will give the darkspawn victory."

"See, even the seventeen-year-old girl sees the stupidity in your actions!" Loghain grated.

"I did not say he was stupid!" Mara protested.

"Loghain, don't put words into Bann Mara's mouth," Cailan chastised, blue eyes flashing in anger before he looked at the pale-faced girl, expression softening. "Bann Mara, I owe it to Ferelden to stand on the frontlines. My father would have done no less."

"I… As you wish," Mara acquiesced with a bow of her head, stepping back into the shadows. Alistair's gaze followed her desperately, meeting her blue eyes for a moment before she looked down. Poor girl, burdened with duties she shouldn't have…

"So I and the Grey Wardens will draw the bulk of the horde while the archers of Waking Sea guard the bridge and a picked squad of men are sent to light the beacon in the Tower of Ishal," Cailan continued, as if he hadn't been arguing the moment before, drawing outlines on the map.

"Yes. And I will charge from the left and Highever's men from the right," Loghain confirmed. "I will have the mages light the beacon-"

"You will not!" protested the senior Revered Mother. "Let honest hearts and hands guide us to victory, not tainted sorceries!"

"I'll send our best; Alistair, Mara, Daveth and … Ser Cory?" Cailan asked.

"Ser Jory," the knight-Warden supplied helpfully.

"Of course. The Bann of Whitebridge, the Arl of Denerim and the two Junior Wardens will light the beacon. This will ensure their safety as much as can be in the wake of something going wrong," Cailan decided.

"We must consider the possibility of the archdemon appearing," Duncan said warningly.

"That's what your people are here for, isn't it?"

"I… Yes, Your Majesty," Duncan agreed; Rennio d'Antiva snorted derisively and Alistair found himself hoping the bastard would die in battle. If Catina Seforzina was a ruthless piece of work, it was because of that evil bastard Mara considered her foster father.

"Good. Then it is decided." Cailan pushed away from the table. "It will be a glorious victory for us all! Ferelden stopping the Blight here and now!"

"Yes," Loghain observed dryly as he turned away to join his troops. "A glorious victory for us all."

Nathanial Howe, who until that moment had remained silent, stepped forth with his pale eyes locked on the shadowed Mara. "May I have a word privately with you?" he asked.

"I regret to tell you this but you won't have the time," Cailan told him quickly. "You need to join the Amaranthine troops immediately."

Something dangerous flashed in those eyes before he nodded. "Very well… Then I'm sure you won't mind me doing _this_, Your Majesty." He then turned to Mara and before anyone could do or say anything, grabbed her and gave her a long, hard kiss.

Familiar with _dweomer _people in general and Mara in particular, Alistair noted the woman's stiff back and lack of response to Nate's kiss. His battle-taut nerves stretched almost to breaking point as he resisted the urge to bury a blade in that bastard's back; Zevran's hand, warm and steady, placed itself on Alistair's shoulder to keep him from doing something stupid.

Swollen mouth working like a stunned trout once Nate released her, Mara's gaze was blank as the Arl stepped back, smiling in satisfaction. "Once we've sent these bastard monsters underground, we can return to Denerim and get to know each other again," he said with a gentleness that chilled Alistair to hear. "Knowing you're safe will allow me to fight much harder… but don't worry, my love, we'll be fine."

He smiled again and nodded to the King as Mara managed a weak nod; when Nate looked at Alistair, his eyes were triumphant, as if he'd won a victory.

Alistair decided then and there that this man was his enemy. That display was nothing but marking territory.

When the Arl and most of the other commanders had left – Rennio had been dispatched to ready the Wardens while Duncan gave Jory and Daveth last-minute instructions – Cailan unclenched his gauntleted fists. "If I die, brother, have your Crow friend kill that man," he suggested through gritted teeth. "Because if he will defy _me_… He will no doubt try to take that which is rightfully yours."

"And here I thought you were an utter idiot," Zevran observed with a smirk.

Cailan grinned wryly. "No, only mostly one." Then he looked at Mara, who had forced herself into a state of Tranquility, watching the world with a blank expression and cold eyes. "Bann Mara… Please be there for Alistair. He needs you… and you need him."

Something flickered in her eyes before she replied in a monotonous voice, "Of course, Your Majesty. But you will live, I am sure."

But Cailan shook his head and said something in Antivan which made Mara, Duncan and Zevran suck in sharp breaths; Alistair recognised the word for death and that was about it – though he recognised Anora's name. The coldness left Mara's face for a moment as she began to argue in the same tongue, fiercely gesturing as words fell rapidly from her mouth. But once more the King shook his head, said something in a tone of command, and made Mara wilt again.

"Fine," she said flatly and walked down the ramp to await the others at Duncan's bonfire.

"You are insane," Zevran told the King before he went to join her.

Duncan's dark eyes looked troubled but he said nothing, instead turning to farewell his Wardens before leaving to join the rest of his men. Daveth and Jory followed his example and went to the bonfire.

That left the Theirin brothers alone in the ruins… alone for actually the first time. "Feisty, isn't she?" Cailan observed ruefully.

"Despite the best efforts of the Howes, she remains unbroken," Alistair said proudly. "What was all that Antivan about?"

"I… asked Mara do to something in the case of my death," the King replied. "Don't ask, please. If I'm alive, it won't matter. If I'm dead, I'm sure she'll tell you anyway."

"No doubt," Alistair agreed. "Brother… We'll be fine, I'm sure. I really don't want to be King."

Cailan's smile was sad. "Neither did I. But I didn't have a choice and if the worst happens, neither will you." He looked blindly out into the darkened ruins, the last grey-violet light of twilight fading from the sky. "Do you know, my brother, that each House has its own motto?"

"Of course," Alistair replied, a bit confused by the change of subject.

"What is the Theirin motto?"

_"Until the End._ Each Theirin alters it as needed for his own personal use."

"Indeed. Father's was _Defiant until the End._ Mine is _Victorious until the End._"

"What does that make mine? _Cheese until the End_?"

Cailan laughed at the weak jest. Then his face sobered as he shook his head. "No… Yours is simply _Until the End._ Because whatever you do, my brother, you will see it through… _Until the End._"

He looked at Alistair. "I am proud you are my brother… and I think you have the best of the Theirin bloodline in you. Please don't die in this battle, because I think Ferelden will need you in the coming days."

"I… love you, Cailan." Alistair couldn't think of anything else to say as he stepped forward and embraced his brother in a clash of silverite and dragonbone.

Cailan returned the hug and replied, "I love you too, Alistair. Maker watch over you, my brother."

"And you too." Then Alistair turned away to join his squad, but not without looking back once more.

Cailan stood watching him, head held proudly as he raised his hand in salute. Alistair returned it, not knowing that this would be the last time he saw his brother, tall and proud, alive and golden in the light of the torches.

It would be an image he would hold with him all his days.


	14. Chapter 13

Note: Thanks for the reviews. Here's where things go to hell… Strong language, violence. Mara's daggers are the Matriarch Dragonbone Phoenix Claw Hidar and Mig from the Phoenix Armoury Mod, probably the most beautiful set of female-only armour ever created. Google it, seriously. Remember, her armour is a blue-and-white version of the Battlemaiden set from the same mod. I also use another couple mods called Awakening in the OC and No Restrictions in DAO and Awakenings; for those who care, Mara has effectively maxed out the first row of the Dual Weapon tree, making her able to wield two swords if necessary and she has Dual Weapon Sweep.

…

**Chapter 13**

_War is the unfolding of miscalculations._

Barbara Tuchman

Tower of Ishal, Ostagar, 8th Umbralis (Night)

For a moment Mara was in shocked awe as the true chaos and cacophony of war engulfed her on the edge of the great bridge which spanned the deep gorge below. Even within the state of cold dispassionate logic she called the assassin's mind and others called Tranquility, she was taken aback at the sheer intensity and violence… It took a passing soldier brushing against her shoulder to jolt her back into awareness, Alistair's gentle touch on her arm to get her to start running across the bridge.

Boulders hurled by massive blue-skinned ogres crashed about them, killing the archers of Waking Sea and West Hills as they desperately fired a deluge of flaming arrows down upon the darkspawn below. One crashed near their squad, the impact of displaced air stunning them for vital seconds; Cu and Barkspawn, who had raced ahead, howled worriedly for their humans to get up.

They somehow survived the run only to find things getting worse, much worse, as a mage and one of Mara's own guards – Carver Hawke of Lothering – came running down the ramp which led to the Tower of Ishal. "The Tower's been overrun by darkspawn," Carver said grimly.

"With us," Mara ordered coldly as she unsheathed her long daggers. Forged from thrice-quenched dragonbone and shaped with a wicked curve to the edge of the blades, they had been enchanted with runes and jewels to potentially disrupt magic and stun anyone struck by them. Rennio had given them to her for her sixteenth birthday and she'd left them behind in Amaranthine with her armour so long ago… Except that Delilah had returned them to her parents, who had forwarded on to her whilst she was in the Chantry of Lothering.

Before she could gather herself, she was running headlong into a mass of darkspawn which had surrounded one of her men. Despite her lack of fitness from over a year of sitting on her arse in robes and gowns, her body remembered the knife-work which Rennio had taught her… and the flashy but effective _danses du couteau_ that Leliana had trained her in. She dinly heard Alistair telling her to fall back but it was too late; she was already surrounded by five hurlocks, back to back with her sorely wounded soldier, with three genlocks wounded or dying in that first initial rush.

"M'lady, you came," the man breathed. "Thank the Maker!"

"Thank Him when the battle's won," she advised as she began _la danse du clignotement des couteaux_ – the dance of the flashing knives. She turned in a tight circle, back always to her man, as shining circles of blued dragonbone with white drakeskin-wrapped hilts, pommels etched with the Laurel Crown of the Couslands superimposed over the white bridge of her bannorn, kept the monsters surrounding them at bay. When Ser Jory screamed to catch the monsters' attention as a greater threat (armoured and a Warden), she unleashed a simultaneous sweep of both weapons to leave two more corpses and another sorely wounded.

Carver proved his worth as he decapitated one genlock and removed another's arm on his backswing. He was a surly little shit at times, though having Garrett Hawke for a brother probably did that to him.

Daveth focused on the archer as Alistair engaged the remaining two, knocking one down with a vicious shield bash before sliding his silverite sword through its throat. The other hurlock managed to collect his helmeted head with the blow of a mace, but Alistair simply shrugged it off and head-butted the monster, blue-crested veridium caving in its ugly face. Then he grabbed the monster's own sword and ran it right through its guts before retrieving his own.

They fought their way through several more knots of darkspawn, directed by a genlock alpha, before achieving entrance to the Tower. Mara was about to dart ahead as a scout before Daveth held up a hand. "Darkspawn ahead," he said just as Alistair muttered, "I sense dark magic."

"My armour is enchanted with runes against it," she assured them. "I will be fine."

"Suit yerself," Daveth muttered as Mara went through the open archway.

She managed to detect the tripwire just before coming into contact with it; a quick kneel and cut with her hidar rendered it useless. "'Ware the spell!" Alistair shouted from behind her, giving her just enough time to turn and dive for cover as a fireball erupted where the grease would have been spilt had she triggered the trap.

Then she descended into room after room of protracted fighting as wave upon wave of darkspawn attacked them. Alistair's two surviving Denerim guards fell to archers on the third level while Cu managed to pull a lever and unleash the mabari trapped in their cages…

She somehow managed to maintain that cold distance even as her mind screamed in horror at the atrocities inflicted by the darkspawn upon her men. Cooked and gnawed upon, decapitated and eviscerated, heads piked like trophies… Mara knew, bone-deep, that she would have nightmares for the rest of her life about this one night.

Maker just let it be worthwhile…

When they achieved the top floor and encountered the ogre, the bitter sharpness of urine filled the air as Mara lost both her emotional distance and control of her bladder upon seeing the blue-skinned beast. She screamed, raw with fear and pain, and attacked recklessly.

One sweep of the giant monster's arm slammed her into the wall near the staircase with broken ribs and a blow to the head which left her unconscious. When she awoke, it would be in a different place, in a world which had tilted so dramatically off its axis she wasn't sure if it could ever be mended again.

…

Daveth cursed as Mara broke ranks and was punched into a wall for her troubles; poor girl had finally cracked, it seemed. Thankfully the Chantry Boy kept his position as they advanced upon the beast despite an anguished glance in the unconscious woman's direction.

"Daveth, fall back, pepper the creature with arrows," Jory suddenly commanded, his voice authoritative. "Enchanter Herold, weaken the beast; Padric, use your crossbow and support Daveth; Alistair, draw its attention; Carver, you and I will flank it."

In his exasperation with the overly honourable knight, Daveth had forgotten that knights were trained to lead different types of troops. So he obeyed for once in his life, determined to see this over and done with. The beacon needed to be lit and these fucking darkspawn slaughtered.

Chantry Boy might have been a wanker but he was the first son of a bitch Daveth had ever seen keep on fighting after his arm was broken when the ogre punched his yew shield clean in two. He just rammed his sword into the monster's side with a grimace of pain just before Jory, the fucking show-off, jumped onto the ogre's chest and rammed that flatblade of his right through the chest. Carver, the second show-off, then beheaded the bastard of a thing.

Herold made himself useful by setting fire to the beacon though they were probably too damned late. Pity the dumbarse couldn't heal because Alistair, whose arm had to be hurting like a bitch, was frantically checking to see if Mara was alive. She looked like shit but was still breathing; Maker willing, the poor thing wouldn't suffer from the head-blow.

Daveth had about a moment's warning before a new wave of darkspawn arrived. Unfortunately the bastards were smart enough to use the squad as target practice for their archers first. As he fell into unconsciousness, he hoped that at least the battle was being won…

…

The Gorge, Ostagar (Night)

Teagan's arms burned with the effort of swinging his veridium sword and using his steel shield to parry blows. The men of Redcliffe and Rainesferre had been assigned to the anvil alongside the Grey Wardens and the King's personal forces, fighting until they could be relieved by the left and right flanks. Surely the beacon would be lit soon…

Monsters beyond counting poured into the defile where the anvil held, two more replacing each one slain; Eamon's forces had already taken heavy losses and Teagan feared his own men would soon be annihilated even with the raw ferocity of Duncan's Grey Wardens.

A thousand little wounds and bruises hampered his movements as he fought mechanically, mind dull with fatigue as he tried not to think about how he'd just stepped in a Knight of Redcliffe's guts… They would survive. They would prevail.

That hope carried him through the first hour and into the second but as the North Star rose into the sky, Teagan realised that something was very, very wrong. Why wasn't the beacon lit? Had the Tower been overrun too?

He found himself side by side with Cailan and Duncan; suddenly the Warden-Commander's face twisted with anguish. "CAILAN, WATCH OUT!" he screamed as an ogre came barrelling through a knot of soldiers, brushing aside human and darkspawn alike, to slam the half-Rivaini to the side and into another couple Grey Wardens.

Teagan tried to marshal strength into his limbs, tried to make them a little faster, as the monster turned its attention to Cailan. It laughed at the King's feeble attempts to fend it off before picking him in one taloned hand, bringing the struggling young man to its face and roaring its contempt… And then crushed the life out of Cailan with a shower of red blood.

Duncan cursed weakly in Rivaini and struggled to his feet, fighting the pain of broken ribs and a massive scarlet stain spreading across the white leather of his robes. But he somehow found the speed to draw both blades and dash for the massive brute, somehow found the strength to literally leap onto its chest and climb up using his weapons as hand-holds… And then twist his dagger into its heart and fall back weakly to his knees as it collapsed and died.

But the lines collapsed – as Mara Howe had predicted – with the death of the King. Teagan raised his eyes despairingly to the sky and realised that the beacon had finally been lit…

_Where is the right flank?_ he thought desperately as the war cries of South Reach and Highever reached his ears and gave him enough energy to carry on fighting. At least Alistair was safe in the Tower… _Where are Loghain and Nate?_

As the battle turned against the army of Ferelden despite the influx of fresh men, Teagan realised that _they weren't coming…_ As Loghain's horn sounded the retreat, he moaned with despair, dropping his sword and reaching out desperately to the Tower as if the beacon might save him…

"Teagan!" Eamon's desperate cry cut through the fog of hopelessness and fatigue which enveloped the Bann of Rainesferre; he picked up a random sword and hacked his way to his brother's side only to find the Arl of Redcliffe mortally wounded.

"Eamon… Oh Maker…" His brother couldn't die, he was needed…

"Teagan… Sound the retreat," Eamon gasped, blood flecking his lips. "Take… Redcliffe… Rainesferre… Fall back. The battle… is lost."

"Brother-," Teagan began to protest, only to be interrupted by Duncan's weak, pain-filled voice.

"He is right. We are lost here. Return north, call for Orlais' Grey Wardens. Loghain and Howe… have betrayed us…"

"Save Alistair," Eamon urged. "The Theirin bloodline must continue. Promise me this…"

"I will," Teagan said swiftly. "I…"

"Go! Take care of Connor and Isolde for me!"

With a despairing cry, Teagan turned to obey his brother, ripping the horn from his belt to sound the retreat. As the remaining men of Redcliffe and Rainesferre broke off, Highever and South Reach followed suit.

Why had Loghain betrayed them, he wondered hopelessly as he began to run from the battlefield, leaving honour and his dead King behind for the greater good.

…

The Gwaren and Amaranthine Forces, Ostagar (Night)

"They're committed now… and the beacon hasn't been lit," Ser Cauthrien reported dispassionately as she lowered her spyglass. "Do we engage?"

"Not until the beacon's lit," Loghain ordered flatly. "It's taking forever to be done so."

"Maker willing the horde didn't figure out the plan," Nate breathed, worried beyond worry for Mara. Loghain should have dispatched her northwards instead of letting her remain here.

"It's in His hands now, Arl Nathanial," Cauthrien said, though not without sympathy.

Still the delay was making the plan of letting several traitors die in battle, overwhelmed by darkspawn, rather easier than Nate thought. Mara and a spare Theirin were tucked away safely in the Tower… Once Cailan had fallen and the beacon lit, they could charge in and save the rest of the army…

He allowed his mind to wander back to the fierce kiss he'd given Mara before joining Loghain's forces. He supposed she'd been surprised by it, given she'd spent the afternoon crying after Loghain's gentle lecture according to his source… and that fucking bastard Alistair had gone visiting her. And she was wearing a golden rope necklace he _knew _she didn't own before once the Prince had emerged.

Even _if_ Mara had been manipulating Alistair in an attempt to protect herself and the babies, then broken it off on the advice of Loghain, she couldn't exactly refuse a gift from the Prince. Perhaps Alistair was trying to make a power play of his own despite his publicly avowed disdain for the Game of Princes. If he gained Mara's trust, he gained control of Amaranthine's heirs and a potential means of leashing Nate…

It was always the publicly self-righteous ones who played dirty in politics, anyways, Nate reminded himself as they waited for the beacon. Mara hadn't been stiff with apprehension over Nate kissing her, surely; it was fear of how that bastard prince with his pet Crow – servant of an enemy of Catina Seforzina's and the whoreson who murdered Thom no less – that made her unresponsive.

Alistair Theirin, the Arl of Amaranthine decided, would have to die sooner rather than later. Then there'd be no barriers between him and Mara and the babes…

"The King's forces are being overwhelmed," Cauthrien reported, her voice edged with concern. "If we engage now – Maker's balls, is that an ogre?!"

Nate raised his own spyglass to have the pleasure of seeing that intransigent Orlesian-loving bastard Cailan be ripped apart by the ogre just as the beacon was lit. "If we engage now," he said calmly as he lowered the tube of metal and glass, "We will lose more men than we save."

Loghain looked briefly troubled before giving Cauthrien a significant glance. "Then we have no choice… Sound… the retreat."

"What about the King-?" Cauthrien protested, only to have Loghain grab her arm.

"Do as I command," he ordered.

"Yes, Teyrn." Cauthrien turned to the troops and blew the retreat; the soldiers obeyed her, marching away towards where the gates to Ostagar led to the King's Highway.

As they reached the ramp leading to the Tower of Ishal, a desperate-looking man in Whitebridge colours ran up to them. "The Tower of Ishal has fallen!" he screamed. "All within are dead-"

"You lie!" Nathanial snarled, going for his belt-knife but just beaten by Cauthrien as she ran the man through.

"We don't need our remaining troops panicked," she said coolly, giving Nathanial a sympathetic glance. "We… must hope you are correct, Arl Howe. But we cannot afford to linger if we are to reach Denerim in time to prepare ourselves for the darkspawn advance."

"You're… right," he replied bitterly. "But they lit the beacon…"

"Mara Howe's the luck of the Couslands," Loghain said gently. "Once she's realised the battle is lost, no doubt she'll retreat, and probably beat us to Lothering."

The Teyrn of Gwaren was right. Mara was a smart girl and her first priority would be to rescue her children. She might even take advantage of the opportunity to kill that bastard prince she was scared of…

Nate allowed himself to be drawn away by Cauthrien's gentle hand as the troops of Amaranthine and Gwaren marched out. As he passed beneath the crumbling archway that led to the King's Highway, an owl uttered overheard and screamed its scorn to the uncaring night.

…

Ostagar (Pre-Dawn)

Morrigan's mother had skewed priorities, the witch thought as she allowed herself to become one of the mighty man-sized strix owls of the southern Korcari Wilds. Flemeth, in the shape of a great eagle, had picked up the two Grey Wardens (the idiot knight and the half-Chasind who had eyed her form most lasciviously upon their meeting) and had ignored the broken bodies of the two nobles lying near the door, the man sprawled over the woman in a futile attempt to protect her. The witch didn't know the man with the red-gold hair but she realised that he was a noble of royal ancestry; the potent blood of heroes flowed sluggishly through his veins. The woman was someone Morrigan owed something of a debt to.

As a girl, she'd crept into Lothering one day and encountered the most fantastical conveyance of deep blue paint and silver-gilt trimming pulled by four beautiful white horses… Within was a girl only a few years younger than she, with skin tanned golden and wearing clothing of rich hues and strange smooth fabric, checking her features with a golden mirror, set with jewels, which Morrigan lusted for immediately.

When someone called the girl outside to meet the local Bann, she'd carelessly left the trinket behind, much to the witchling's delight. She crept up stealthily and stole it from the seat; pleased with her find, she'd turned around only to be confronted by the mirror's true owner, who regarded her with enormous blue eyes.

Morrigan had planned to stun her with a spell before making her escape, but the girl simply smiled and said in a strange drawling accent, "You need it more than I. Please, keep it."

Angry with the girl's assumption until she realised that her tattered clothing made her look like some poor beggar child, Morrigan had simply nodded her thanks – if the noblewoman was going to be foolishly generous, her loss and Morrigan's gain! – before running away. Even though Flemeth had destroyed the mirror in a rage (not knowing, it seemed, that it had been freely given instead of stolen), the witch-girl had never forgotten the first act of kindness anyone had ever performed for her.

It wasn't for that Morrigan had tattooed Mara Cousland's face; it was for the fourteen-year-old girl defending Morrigan, who had taken to meeting with the noblewoman now and then to exchange knowledge (teaching Mara how to manipulate men in return for lessons in politics and the greater world) but had been caught using magic by a templar. "You speak of my daggers," the girl said, producing a pair of curved veridium daggers from seemingly nowhere – a skill which oddly delighted Morrigan. "They are enchanted."

It would have taken a stronger man than the junior templar to defy the daughter of one of the greatest nobles in the land; he'd muttered an apology and left hastily, allowing Morrigan to resume the shape of a human after becoming a housecat to demonstrate her sorcerous skills. "I… thank you," she'd said awkwardly to the noblewoman. "I am in your debt."

"No doubt if I was in similar circumstances, you would have done the same," Mara said, speaking with the assumption that they were friends and could trust each other. Morrigan, in recognition of the debt, had chosen not to correct her about the truth of power and survival.

So instead she'd given Mara the tattoo so that the Chasind would respect her… plus the deep blue woad really suited her face. In return, she'd received a string of pearls from a place called 'Antiva'…

But now Morrigan found herself holding the lives of a woman she owed – just a little - and a man who had obviously tried to protect her. Telling herself it was sheer practicality, she picked them up carefully with her talons and lifted off into the sky after her mother.

'Twas practicality, no more.


	15. Epilogue

Note: Thanks for the reviews! This will be the last chapter of this part of Game of Princes; in order to give myself achievable goals without being bogged down in dozens of chapters, I will be dividing Game of Princes into several parts, likely one for each mission. Just remember, this story is massively AU. :) Thanks for reading!

I also see Loghain as much more sensible once things are explained to him in a pragmatic way (or at least in a way which appeals to him). Rennio isn't considered one of the best politicians in the world for nothing!

Parts of this story were inspired by George R.R. Martin's _A Song of Ice and Fire_, Niccolo Machiavelli's _The Prince_ and the politics of Jacqueline Carey's _Kushiel's Legacy._ I recommend everyone read these excellent books.

…

**Epilogue**

_The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis._

Dante Alighieri

The King's Highway, 10th Umbralis 9:30

Rennio d'Antiva rolled his shoulders carefully as a stern, dark-haired she-dog in the armour of a Knight of Gwaren strode forth from the orderly lines of troops. He had no illusions about his ability to survive fighting several soldiers and this bitch all at once but he was prepared to go down fighting rather than be captured and tortured. He _was_ the Prince of Crows after all.

The loss of life at Ostagar had been catastrophic but it had presented several opportunities, both political and personal, for Rennio to exploit. He alone of all the survivors of Cailan and Duncan's futile battle had seen the two great birds soaring above the field with bodies in their talons…

"Before you ask, I am no deserter from the Grey Wardens," he reassured Ser Cauthrien with arms wide open and hands held out, palms upraised, in the traditional Antivan gesture of goodwill. "I, like your commanders, realised the battle was lost and so retreated to fight the Blight another day."

"You are… Rennio? The Antivan Warden?" Cauthrien asked a touch hesitantly. Obviously Loghain had made her his second-in-command because of her loyalty, not her intelligence.

"He is. Stand down Ser Cauthrien." Nate Howe's raspy voice cut through the beginnings of Rennio's sarcastic reply; the knight bowed her head and stepped back like the good dog she was as the tall, sinewy archer walked through the ranks, pale eyes wary and watchful.

"Arl Howe," Rennio said, bowing his head politely. Nathanial was a skilful player of the murder game even if his understanding of the higher levels of diplomacy and politics left much to be desired. He would be a useful tool.

"I thought all the Wardens were dead," the Arl of Amaranthine continued, watching the Black Griffin like he was an archdemon. Not an entirely inaccurate comparison…

"_Some_ of us realise that pitched battles in the middle of nowhere are useless until the archdemon rises," Rennio observed dryly. "Duncan's stupidity and facilitation of your late and unlamented fool of a King's vainglory killed those people, not your regrettably necessary withdrawal."

"I was wondering why you looked like you had grit stuck in your smallclothes at Ostagar," the archer said with a subtle smirk. "It's a pity you didn't come to us sooner."

"I couldn't. I had that half-Rivaini whoreson watching me like a hawk." Rennio allowed himself a sharp smile. "I have news for you and the Teyrn."

"What is it?" Loghain demanded, pushing his way through the soldiers. The Teyrn of Gwaren was looking haggard; betrayal of his best friend's son, even if necessary, would do that to a man.

"I saw two great birds carrying bodies from the Tower of Ishal," the Black Griffin said carefully. "We are on the edge of the haunt of your Witch of the Wilds, are we not?"

"Yes, but what has this to do with anything?" Loghain asked impatiently. Fereldans were incapable of understanding subtlety.

Rennio looked directly as Nathanial, who was a little smarter than Loghain. "In the flashes of lightning I saw that one had long, fair hair; my foster daughter claims to have met a Witch of the Wilds, so it stands to reason that she could have been rescued by one."

Nate's usually dour face was transformed with the big, triumphant grin that crossed it. "You were right, Cauthrien, Loghain!"

"Of course we were," Loghain murmured before looking at Rennio. "You didn't come looking for us just to tell us this."

"Of course not. I also understand you have… _misgivings_… about foreigners, especially Wardens," Rennio replied, watching the warrior carefully. "But you, the Arl and I have mutual enemies, Teyrn, beyond the darkspawn."

"What do you mean?" Nathanial asked, eyes narrowing.

"I have many investments, personal, political and financial, which depend on Ferelden remaining free and independent," Rennio said. "I also despise the Orlesians on a personal level; they think they are the Masters of the Game when in reality their politics is nothing more than empty, flashy posturing of their glutted egos."

Loghain actually chuckled dryly. "Don't hold back, Rennio; tell us how you really feel."

"I also believe you are the best chance to defeat the Blight," Rennio continued. "And make no mistake of it: it _is_ a Blight. I would not be here was it not."

"I'd hoped it was Cailan's vanity…" Loghain sighed, rubbing his craggy features wearily.

"Yes, well, Duncan was a fool to think he could draw out the archdemon with a pitched battle," Rennio continued scornfully. It was true. The Rivaini had proven himself a fool and died for it. "The archdemon rises in its own time."

"I see…" Loghain still looked doubtful.

"I agree with your position that we had no need of Orlais' help. Remember, after the Third and Fourth Blights, the Orlesian armies remained to conquer the lands they had saved." Rennio smiled again. "Before you ask, Catina Seforzina has extensive investments in Orlais. I would see Ferelden strengthened – not just because of my great dream to see Thedas united in diplomacy – but also to see her plans suffer."

Nate snorted wryly. "You're saying the right things," he conceded. "But you still abandoned your brethren."

"I retreated because a Warden _must_ survive to fight the archdemon… And if you can get me to Denerim, I can replace Duncan's people with _loyal_ Fereldans." Rennio looked at the trio before him. "I am old, my life as a Warden is close to an end. I want to see my foster daughter married to a man who understands all that she is and is strong enough to protect her, not some insipid little shit who thinks he is above the Game of Princes. I want the archdemon dead. And I want Catina Seforzina to know that I have ruined her plans for destabilising Ferelden so she could move in her Orlesian-loving pawns."

Loghain looked to Nate Howe for reassurance; if the man was relying on the archer for political advice then manipulating these two would be little harder than a stroll in the park. "I think we can rely on his self-interest," Nate replied. "Rennio has always been my partisan."

"I would have killed Thomas myself had I known what manner of man he was," Rennio admitted. "But I would have done it long before he married Mara, so that you could have wed her instead and none the wiser."

"And Cousland didn't think to use your resources to find out?" Loghain asked shrewdly.

"I raised that girl for four years because they knew not what to do with her. I found out what she was good at. And Bryce Cousland spat in my face and sent her to Ferelden's arsehole because he planned a match from the start without consulting me." Rennio allowed an edge of anger to enter his voice. "It wasn't the Howe-Cousland alliance I opposed; it was my foster daughter being wedded to a monster like Thom Howe. I would have chosen Nathanial here."

"You're quite the pragmatist," Loghain observed, almost admiringly.

"Like you, I have done what is necessary. You now face a few choices: you may slay me and guarantee both the archdemon rising swiftly and the invasion of Orlesian forces led by Riordan, Senior Warden of Jader and personal friend to Duncan, under the justification of saving Ferelden from the Blight; you can send me on my way and I will remain in Ferelden to await the archdemon's rising; or you may work with me so that we may end this threat in the most sensible manner."

"You make a good case," Loghain conceded grudgingly. "Join us, then. We have a long march to Denerim."

Rennio allowed himself a small smile as the general ordered his men to start marching again. He would do his duty to the Wardens… in his own way. And once he was finished, none would doubt he was the true Master of the Game.

…

Flemeth's Hut, 12th Umbralis

"See? Here is your lady. You worry too much, young man."

Pale and wan but alive, Mara had emerged from the hut belonging to the witches who had saved them, armoured up and obviously ready to travel. Having spent the past two days begging the enigmatic crone who had rescued Jory and Daveth from the Tower of Ishal for assurances that the Bann of Whitebridge would live, Alistair supposed the witch had the right to jibe at him – just a little. But all he felt at the moment was sheer relief at seeing Mara up and about, the only signs of her near-death a few minor facial scars… Her tongue licked along the crease of one which bisected her full lower lip in a gesture that looked like it would become nervous habit. Then her eyes went straight to his and a flash of infinite sorrow filled them.

"Your Majesty," she said gently, performing a slow, graceful curtsey that somehow managed to keep her spine and shoulders straight as she plucked at the war-skirt of her intricate armour.

Alistair took a deep, shuddering breath as the one truth he'd tried hard not to contemplate crashed into his consciousness. He was his brother's recognised heir. He was the last Theirin.

_Did my father feel like this when the Rebel Queen was betrayed and murdered?_ He allowed himself one final deep, shaky breath before standing up from where he'd been kneeling, scrubbing his shirt clean, and squaring his shoulders as he met those big sad winter-sky eyes. "We were betrayed, according to…" He realised that he had not gotten the name of their chief rescuer. "Forgive me, I should have asked your name before. What do you we call you, ma'am?"

"Names are pretty but useless. But if you must, the Chasind call me Flemeth. It will do," the crone replied calmly.

"The Flemeth of legend come to save a Theirin and a Cousland…" Alistair managed a dry chuckle. "The Maker has a sense of humour, it seems."

"Actually, I was only rescuing the Grey Wardens," Flemeth said wryly, yellow eyes going to where Jory and Daveth sat, repairing frayed leather straps on their armour. Grey Warden stamina and endurance had them up and about before anyone else. "'Twas Morrigan who saved you two."

"Then I owe her a debt," Alistair said with a bow of his head. "So Loghain and Nate Howe have betrayed us."

"Indeed," the witch replied. "But that is as nothing, son of Maric, compared to the true evil which Ferelden faces."

"The Blight." It was Mara who spoke, her rich contralto flat and grim.

"Indeed, the Blight," Flemeth agreed. "How typical of a Cousland to see to the heart of a matter. 'Twas why I spared Salim, you know."

"So, you are _the_ Flemeth," Mara observed, eyes narrowed. "I suppose we Couslands should thank you."

Flemeth cackled with glee. "A Cousland with a sense of humour! It goes to show even I can be surprised."

"…I was serious," the girl continued. "If you had not spared Salim, my family would not be here now. So therefore I owe you my thanks."

Flemeth looked at Mara oddly, placing wizened fingers beneath her pointed chin and looking into those big blue eyes. "The fates are surely laughing at a Cousland being in the same position as I was once," she mused as the girl forced herself to remain still. "I spared Salim for he was the only one to speak out against Osen being slain… It is somehow fitting that you and this son of Maric accompany my daughter and these Wardens during their quest to end the Blight."

"Glad I shoved them treaties inta my beltpouch," Daveth muttered in the background.

"Indeed, clever lad," Flemeth told him before looking back at Mara. "Remember, lass, your grief must come later… in the dark shadows before you take vengeance, as my mother once said. Duty comes first."

The girl bowed her head. "You are correct, Flemeth. Thank you once more for your words of wisdom."

Then Alistair found himself the focus of those alien yellow eyes. "Half-elf, Bastard Prince… If you knew half of your history, lad, you'd understand why I think this a great cosmic jest. Hear this, son of Maric: you are what _you_ are, not what your parents _were_. Do not live up to your father's legend… Make your own."

He forced himself to stare into those yellow eyes unflinchingly. "Thank you, Flemeth. I will remember your advice."

"Now then, the Wardens…" Flemeth gestured to Daveth and Jory to come closer; unwillingly, they rose and obeyed, the former looking perturbed (for once) and the other trying to conceal his fear behind a neutral expression. Alistair chose to go to Mara's side and touch her arm.

She took one look at him, scarred bottom lip trembling, and then threw herself into his arms and buried her face in his shoulder to weep helplessly. He held her as long as he needed to, wishing that it hadn't taken the slaughter of nearly everyone they'd known and cared for to get her to willingly embrace him.

It would be the last time she would weep for a long time.

…

The Hinterlands, 12th Umbralis

_*Wynne. You must awake.*_

The Senior Enchanter groaned as the voice of her oldest friend penetrated her unconsciousness and drove her towards the waking world. Memories of the slaughter at Ostagar flashed through her mind, the feeling of her heart straining and failing in the face of ultimate evil… Gentle warmth now enveloped her entire being as she realised why she still lived.

_*You will die when I die,*_ she warned the Spirit of Faith which now sustained her.

_*If these darkspawn kill everyone, the Fade itself will die,*_ the Spirit replied calmly. _*You are needed, Wynne.*_

_ *As you wish, then.*_ The mage sat up and realised she was on a slow-moving cart with several other wounded men and women.

"Bann Teagan, the healer's awake!" the driver, a young man with messy dark hair and a bitter expression, called out to the auburn-haired nobleman who walked a little ahead of the rickety cart.

"Thank the Maker!" the Bann of Rainesferre said fervently as he limped back to where Wynne now sat, blinking owlishly as she tried to orient herself. "Senior Enchanter, can you speak?"

"Of course I can," she sighed, rubbing her eyes. "Those… _bastards_… betrayed us."

"They did," Teagan agreed grimly. "I am glad you yet live. Most of your friends at Ostagar were slaughtered… and we have many in need of healing."

"I… will need a few hours before my mana is replenished," the mage replied regretfully, already mourning those who would die. "I… am exhausted. Even lyrium could not help me at the moment."

"Then rest while you can," Teagan advised softly. "And… do not blame yourself. These men and women have died or will die because of Loghain and Nathanial Howe, not anything we did."

"It is still a bitter thing to contemplate," Wynne said sadly.

"Indeed…" Teagan sighed, looking years older than he had before Ostagar. "Loghain will make it to Denerim before us… _Oh, Maker's balls!"_

"What is it?" Wynne asked, sharper than she usually would because of the intensity of the Bann's outburst.

"The Howe twins… are in Lothering. And with Bryce Cousland in a coma, Fergus Cousland probably dead, Mara lost at Ostagar and the only other heir a seven-year-old boy guarded by two women and a handful of guards…" He looked despairingly at Wynne. "They will reach Lothering before us – and because Nathanial Howe is the father of those children, he becomes de facto Teyrn of Highever if Anora recognises his right to regency – in addition to Bann of Whitebridge and Arl of Amaranthine…"

Wynne felt her heart grow cold as even the Spirit within shuddered. As a Senior Enchanter, she knew rather more than most mages about Ferelden's politics. "Whoever controls those children holds at least three votes in the Landsmeet."

"And if they get a hold of Connor and Oren too… So many underage heirs because of the dead at Ostagar…" Teagan's expression was sick. "And that's not counting the fact Alistair's probably dead too."

"Oh Maker, those poor lambs…" Wynne breathed. "Is there anything we can do, Bann Teagan?"

Determination filled those pale blue eyes, legacy of Calenhad's bloodline. "We get to Redcliffe and regroup… And Maker forgive me, but I must use every scrap of knowledge I have ever gathered as Houndmaster to play the Game of Princes."

"For what stakes?" Wynne asked.

Teagan looked at her grimly. "The fate of the kingdom, if not Thedas itself," he replied. "For if the Blight is ignored…"

Wynne placed her hand on the Bann's shoulder. "Have faith," she said. "We will _not_ fail."

"How can you be so certain?"

Wynne actually found it in her to smile. "A friend told me as I lay sleeping."

…

Denerim, 14th Umbralis

Anora rose from the lesser Mabari Throne (nicknamed the Bitch's Throne by those with a coarse sense of humour) as the Queen's Hound entered and offered her a fist-to-shoulder salute. "I am pleased to announce that your command has been fulfilled," he informed her with a smile. "We have… _secured_… the underage heirs of those lost at Ostagar."

The widowed Queen allowed herself to smile at the man, a darkly handsome Gwaren man of partial Antivan heritage whose ready smile concealed a pragmatism well suited to a Hound. "Well done… I must ask you to pursue a mission in furtherance of our goal to protect Ferelden's future in this uncertain time."

"Indeed. Oren Cousland is far from safe with his grandfather so sadly close to death and mother prostrate with worry over her husband's fate," the Hound replied shrewdly.

"You understand my mind only too well," Anora said softly. "Bring the lad to Denerim. He's of an age to foster anyway, so he might as well meet and socialise with those of a similar age and rank instead of being cooped up in Castle Cousland."

"Get 'em young, you've got 'em forever," the Hound agreed softly, his dark eyes flashing with bitterness for a moment. Anora briefly wondered what manner of childhood he'd undergone to be so adept at his trade… and so heartless as to murder mothers and kidnap children.

It mattered not. Most of the major threats to her throne were dead or neutralised; her father and a man she had plans for were on their way to Denerim, according to the messenger pigeon sent by Cauthrien; and they had even gained the support of the senior surviving Grey Warden.

"Well done, Taliesen," she told the Hound as she descended from the dais. It was time to change into the black of mourning so she could announce the valiant death of King Cailan in battle against the darkspawn.

She entered her chambers and smiled at Erlina and a wet nurse, who was busy feeding and changing a pair of twins. They were undoubtedly Howes with their thick thatches of coarse black hair and hooked noses; these babies would never be attractive in appearance. It was their position as heirs to an Arling, a prosperous bannorn and potentially a teynir if anything happened to Oren Cousland that would make them attractive to future spouses.

The Maker had seen fit to render Anora sterile. She could accept that, bitter as the draught was, and instead focus on securing Ferelden's future during and beyond the Blight. She would leave the wars to her father and the murders to Nathanial Howe – and do what she did best: rule.

She intended to foster the noble children of Ferelden and guide them gently but firmly as her father had. They would be smart, determined, efficient and competent – just like her. When she went to the Maker's side, she would leave behind a legacy of shrewd, canny rulers who would guide Ferelden into a bright and golden future.

_And to think this was made possible by one girl's stupidity,_ Anora thought as she donned a sombre black velvet gown. _I should pray for Mara Howe's soul, I suppose. I owe her _that_ much._

Perhaps she would make one of the Howe children – the girl, Moira – her heir. _Moira Mac Tir… It has a nice ring to it,_ she decided as Erlina left the babes to the care of the nurse and came to fix her hair.

The stage was set for a glorious future for Ferelden… and _no one_ was going to stop her from bringing it about.

…

Lothering, 18th Umbralis

Zevran shaded his eyes with one tanned hand, breath misting white in the frigid morning air as he peered south into the Korcari Wilds. He'd had a dream last night, one that told him to watch and wait for those he mourned as dead.

Beside him two mabari waited, the hounds lost in the confusion of the Tower of Ishal as their humans were spirited from them. They had tracked him as he fled from Ostagar once he'd realised what was going to happen, intent on reaching the Howe children first as he'd been asked to in the wake of something going wrong.

"It is a strange thing to ask of you, but you are the only one with the wit and cunning who can be spared," Mara said just before they entered the Tower of Ishal. "Find my children and save them. Take them and Leliana to Highever. Please."

Zevran had kissed his Master's ring and made solemn vow to see it done. _La Dolorosa_ had commanded him to succour the innocent victims of the Game of Princes… and so he would do so.

But he had arrived too late: Leliana's corpse hung in the cage as an example to 'foreign spies' next to the qunari who'd slaughtered that family… The Revered Mother had been forced to surrender the babies to a Hound in service to Queen Anora. And now to add to Lothering's woes, Loghain and Nathanial had passed through, taking every scrap of food, anything remotely like a weapon, and two-thirds of the remaining men for their army as they marched north. Only the Chantry and their templars remained to give the village some form of protection… one which would soon dissipate as they fled north to escape the darkspawn.

Yet the old woman in his dreams assured him that those best able to fight Loghain had survived and would arrive in Lothering within a day or so.

_Hacedor que así sea,_ he thought. Because otherwise it was he alone against a Grandmaster, a general and a master murderer.

Prudence dictated that he flee to Orlais or throw himself upon the mercy of Rennio d'Antiva, who was said to be merciful to enemies who surrendered. And a Master Crow was no small tool to be wasted. But he had given his word. Zevran wasn't worth much in the scheme of things, but he did his best to always keep his vows.

Bandits preyed upon the refugees who fled the Blight; Zevran had paid them ten silvers to leave him alone. Because he was clad in rough homespun with no visible weapons, they did so… He looked forward to the arrival of Alistair and Mara; they would leave these scavenging jackals as corpses in their wake.

"Look lively, gentlemen, we've more travellers to attend to," announced the bandit leader as footsteps sounded on the white stone of the Tevinter bridge. "And I would be guessing that fellow is the leader."

Zev palmed his daggers and crept closer as the big dumb bandit observed, "Err, they don't look like the others. I think we should let them pass."

"Nonsense! Greetings, travellers," the chief bandit said heartily.

"Fuckin' hell, Crabby, ya've fallen on hard times if'n ya robbin' refugees," a vaguely familiar male voice observed dryly.

"Daveth! Last I heard you was conscripted by the… Aww shit," Crabby cursed. "Mate, Teyrn Loghain came through here claimin' that Warden-Commander Duncan an' his people were traitors who led the King to his death at Ostagar."

"That's bullshit. Duncan had a stick wedged so far up his arse an' lodged in his brain there wouldn't be room fer the thought of bein' a traitor," Daveth, one of the Wardens assigned to the Tower of Ishal, retorted.

"You're probably right… But well, the Teyrn, the Arl an' some fucking Antivan Warden came through an' said otherwise," Crabby sighed. "You'd probably do best to get the fuck outta Ferelden like I'm planning to."

"Can't. Got an archdemon ta kill," Daveth replied. "So… collectin' 'tolls' off the poor bastards who're runnin' from the darkspawn?"

"Of course. Gotta make money somehow," Crabby answered cheerfully. "You know, your friends look capable. You're welcome to join us… If not, I'll let you pass for free, for old time's sake."

"Does he really think we're going to become highwaymen?" Mara asked flatly.

"Hey… Crabby… Don't she look like the girl Arl Howe was lookin' for?" asked the big dumb bandit as Zevran used the cracks in the bridge to climb up, digging his dragonbone knives into the stonework as hand-holds. He managed to sneak up behind the bandits and gave Alistair, who maintained a deadpan expression as only a templar could, a big grin and wink.

"So it is… Milady Mara Howe," Crabby said, bowing floridly to the blue-eyed woman, "Arl Howe has promised a generous reward to any man who brings the beloved mother of his children to him safe and sound. If you'd like to come with us… We could even put in a good word for Daveth and his friends."

"The only reward Nathanial Howe's going to collect is a rope around his neck," Alistair said grimly as he slammed his shield into the bandit leader's face.

It was a short, sharp fight that left all but Crabby dead. Zev wasn't surprised to discover the brunette with the lovely assets was a mage… When it was over, Alistair hauled the leader up by the scruff of his neck and asked him some pointed questions. Once Crabby had answered them, fear quavering in his voice, the Prince… no… _King_ dropped him like a sack of potatoes, demanded everything he'd stolen, and then ordered him to run away and never come back.

Mara wiped her mig and hidar on a dead bandit's tunic, expression bleak as she regarded the Antivan elf. "That you are here implies my children are not," she stated flatly.

"They were gone… and Sister Leliana dead… by the time I arrived," Zevran replied honestly. "I was told in a dream by an old woman you would come here."

Mara's face twisted momentarily in anguish. "The Game of Princes claims yet another life… I shouldn't have asked her, she might be alive-!"

"Given Loghain's paranoia, she would have likely died anyways," Zev informed her bitterly. "Every Orlesian between Ostagar and here has been strung up as an example for 'foreign spies'.

"'The quickest way to unite a nation under your control is give them an outside enemy,'" Mara said bitterly, quoting from her foster father's book.

"I have worse news." Zev looked at the Grey Wardens. "Rennio d'Antiva is working with them."

"It… makes a horrible amount of sense. If all other Wardens are dead and Loghain has the strongest army, then of course the remaining Warden will support him to fight the archdemon," Jory explained sombrely. "The Order doesn't care for who's in charge; they only care for ending a Blight."

"If you think your chances are better with Loghain, I… couldn't blame you," Alistair told the Wardens regretfully. "Ferelden's more important than who rules."

He then looked at Mara. "Your children are more important than anything," he told her sadly. "I won't be angry if you go to Nathanial…"

"It is not Nathanial but Anora who has taken them, no doubt almost as soon as I was gone," she replied flatly. "You are the rightful King and I will _not_ leave you."

"What if Anora threatens your children?" Alistair asked. "What then?"

"She isn't that stupid because Nathanial would turn on her," Mara told him. "I am with you… _until the end._"

"Ya're stuck with us too," Daveth told him. "Them fuckers left Duncan and Cailan ta die an' then blamed _us_ fer it. So fuck them an' fuck that Antivan cunt too."

"Thank you," Alistair said simply as Jory nodded vehemently in agreement and the witch sighed dramatically.

"'Tis all very well, but we must decide what needs to be done," she said pointedly.

"Zev, you're known here?" Alistair asked.

"Of course," the elf drawled. He was quite proud of his little Chantry Boy, using honesty and honour to keep three people who might have reason to leave him by his side.

"Try and find out who might be trusted in Lothering," Alistair asked. "Maker willing, there'll be someone… Daveth, go with him. Do whatever you need to in order to resupply us. Jory, Morrigan, Mara and I will go to the north part of the village."

"There are bandits there," Zev warned him.

Alistair's smile was bleak. "Good. I was hoping for something to take my mood out on."

"Alistairio…" Mara breathed; looking at her, Zev realised that she had gained some mild facial scarring. "Do not risk yourself unnecessarily. Cailan did…"

"And I am King, and so therefore I need to be careful and hide?" he asked, voice suddenly hard. "No, Mara. I won't rush into danger needlessly but there's only two things I really know how to be."

"That is one more than I expected," Morrigan observed acerbically.

"Be nice. I said I _trained_ as a templar. I didn't say I _was_ one," Alistair countered with a quick wry smile. "Besides, I left the Chantry on my own two feet, of my own accord."

"I suppose he is not _entirely_ hopeless," Morrigan told Mara.

"You're _too_ kind," Alistair retorted. "Now, there are only two things I know how to be: be a templar… or be a lawman. Loghain and Arl Howe have driven Ferelden into lawlessness even as a Blight nips at our heels. I intend to set things right again."

Daveth looked to Zev wryly. "There's just somethin' unnatural about ya an' me workin' with the Chantry Boy here," the thief-turned-Warden told the elven assassin.

"What can I say?" Zev asked as he stripped the dead bandits and a nearby knight of anything practical or valuable. "We are living in unnatural times, my friend."

"Truer words never spoken," Jory said. "Truer words never spoken.

…

Highever, 18th Umbralis

It was the custom of Castle Cousland to offer the hospitality of their hall to any traveller who chanced to climb the steep hill and approach the ancient fortress of ivy and rose-covered grey stone come nightfall. True, only the nobility or traders received something more than a pallet in the servants' quarters and all the bread, bacon grease and pease pottage they could eat, but it was better than nothing. For the woman who hobbled up the hill, swathed in thick grey shawls and robes against the wind and leaning on a thick staff, it would surely be better than she had now.

No friends, no followers, not even a horse to her name… All had been stripped from her or had fled on the wake of her archenemy's butchering of those loyal to her. Now she only had one ally – and she knew that she would lose him too. Not to treachery, thank the Maker, but to the brightest coin of all: loyalty.

She was met at the servants' passage by Nan the cook, who gasped when the woman drew aside her veil. "Maker's breath! Get inside, sit down by the fire," she urged, voice full of pity.

Once the woman had beguiled man and woman alike with her beauty. But now she had nothing to work with but pity. It would have to be enough.

"Thank you," she breathed, her accent thick with the musical Rivaini cadences of her youth. It was despised in Antiva and so she had struggled to keep it.

Sooner than she expected, she was sitting by the fire with a bowl of porridge, thick with milk, honey and currants, in her hands as Nan yelled for someone called Aldous and the Teyrna. It appeared a disfigured woman was an object of some excitement within the Cousland household.

Aldous, it appeared, was the Couslands' house mage and a man of great learning and modest talent with healing. "Hold still: this will hurt briefly but your pain should be eased soon enough," he told her.

His words were true: agony danced along every nerve of her body, making her give a choked-off scream, before it faded into a ghost of itself. "I don't know who did this to you, but you were healed poorly – with deliberate intent to make you suffer all your days," the mage said gently. "I can make you a salve with a touch of deathroot to ease the worst of the aches."

"Why are you being kind to an old hag like myself?" the woman breathed, looking down at burned, arthritic fingers which could suddenly move a little easier than before.

"Because you are a guest," Teyrna Eleanor, a quietly beautiful noble matriarch, said from the doorway to the kitchen. "I don't know how things are done in Antiva but in Ferelden, even an enemy can claim guest-right if they truly need it."

"We should toss her in the harbour," said a younger woman's voice, still touched faintly by the accents of Antiva.

"I know she sent the figs which killed your mother and sickened you, Oriana, but she might be able to tell us what's wrong with Bryce." Eleanor looked at her keenly. "Did you have Bryce and Rendon poisoned?"

"I… would not insult… the guest cup tradition in such manner," she told the noblewoman slowly.

"Did you have Thomas Howe killed?" Eleanor, it appeared, was smarter than Rennio gave her credit for.

"Yes. In part to annoy Rennio, but mostly because he made women suffer," she replied honestly. "I am sorry Mara has suffered for it, though I think your enemies should start to fear."

"Why is that?" Oriana asked sceptically. She was beautiful but not that intelligent, poor girl. Rennio had kept her as a kind of morality pet until she married Fergus.

The old woman smiled. "Because there are three forces even the greatest of foes cannot withstand: love… hate… and a mother defending her children. Your enemies have forged Mara into a weapon and quenched her with all three. So I pity your enemies, just a little."

"Well, for ridding us of Thomas, you're welcome to guest with us," Eleanor said firmly. "As for the rest… Well, strange times can make for strange allies… Can't they, Catina Seforzina?"

The Antivan Crow Grandmaster smiled again. "Indeed, Teyrna. Whilst I am within this hall, I pledge to treat you as my family."

"And when you are without?" Oriana demanded.

"I will not treat you as my enemy. Your brother taught me _that_ lesson too well," Catina replied as she began to spoon porridge into her mouth. Astonishingly, the heavy food was quite delicious. "Thank you… I am grateful, truly."

Oriana snorted sceptically but said nothing more under the withering glance of Eleanor Cousland. Catina decided to watch for trouble from that quarter… but for the moment, she was warm, relatively pain-free and eating a delicious meal.

It would suffice for now.


End file.
